Wednesday, December 10, 2025, 3:30 PM
Countdown to Extraction: 59 Hours, 11 Minutes Remaining
Renee leaned the back of her head against the peeling wallpaper in the narrow hallway, the stack of Troy's oversized clothes and her MacGyver pad clutched to her chest.
Through the cheap, hollow-core wood of the bathroom door, she could hear Tally crying.
It wasn't the fake, screechy whining the seventeen-year-old usually weaponized to manipulate her parents or complain about a bad grade. It was a raw, snotty, hyperventilating kind of crying. It was the sound of a spoiled suburban teenager finally hitting the absolute bottom, shivering naked in a moldy bathtub, realizing that her dad's platinum credit card couldn't swipe her out of this nightmare.
Renee closed her eyes. She didn't knock right away. She gave the kid a second.
Hell, Renee needed a second herself.
Her chest physically ached. The stale, cigarette-stained air of her pregnant sister's ruined apartment felt heavy in her lungs. In the living room behind her, Dot was pulling deep, ragged breaths, her body actively poisoning itself in a desperate bid to stay alive. They were trapped on the second floor, surrounded by mechanics, waiting on a rescue that was looking less likely by the minute.
Renee took a deep, shuddering breath, shoving her own terror down behind a steel wall of clinical professionalism. There was no time to feel. There was only time to survive.
She knocked sharply on the wood.
"Tally," Renee said flatly. "Crack the door. I've got your towel and your clothes."
The crying abruptly choked off. There was a frantic, wet rustling sound, the slap of bare feet on the linoleum, and the metallic grind of the cheap lock turning.
The door opened exactly one inch. A wave of cold, damp air seeped out of the dark bathroom, followed by Tally's pale, shivering hand.
Renee shoved the folded hand towel through the crack first, then followed it with the massive grey sweatpants and the oversized white Nike t-shirt. Lastly, she pushed the crude cardboard contraption she had engineered in the kitchen into the teenager's hand.
Tally pulled the items into the dim light. For three seconds, there was dead silence.
Then, the door was violently yanked open.
Tally stood in the doorway, clutching the hand towel to her chest. Her light brown skin was covered in goosebumps, her sandy blonde hair twisted into a dry, messy knot on top of her head. She looked from the stack of clothes to Renee, her tear-stained face instantly twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust. The terror had been temporarily eclipsed by sheer suburban outrage.
"What the actual fuck are these?" Tally demanded, her voice spiking. She held up the massive grey sweatpants by two fingers, her upper lip curled in revulsion. "Are these a joke? I wear a size zero, Renee! I am going to swim in these! And they smell like old cologne and domestic violence!"
Renee stared at the teenager, a muscle feathering dangerously in her jaw. "They are dry, and they cover your legs. Put them on."
Tally didn't listen. She dropped the sweatpants onto the back of the toilet tank like they were radioactive and picked up the makeshift pad. Her eyes bugged out.
"And what the hell is this?!"
It was an old-school, depression-era survival trick. Renee had flattened the cardboard core of a paper towel roll she found in the kitchen trash, cut it down the middle, and stuffed a folded white washcloth inside. She had wrapped it in medical tape to hold the shape, leaving the softest part exposed, and tied heavy twine to the ends so it could be secured around the hips.
"It's a pad," Renee said, her voice dropping an octave. "The cardboard keeps it from bunching up. Tie the string around your waist so it doesn't fall down inside the sweatpants."
"Are you out of your mind?" Tally shrieked, holding the contraption by one string like a dead rat. "It's a literal paper towel roll! Did you dig this out of the garbage?! You want me to wear trash between my legs? It's going to chafe! It's going to feel like I'm wearing a diaper made out of literal garbage! No. Absolutely not. This is what kindergarteners make in arts and crafts. Go find me something else."
"There is nothing else," Renee snapped, stepping closer, her height forcing Tally to take a half-step backward. "I just tore this entire shithole apart looking for anything sterile. That is the best you are going to get. Welcome to the end of the world."
Tally glared at her, her chest heaving. She looked down at the humiliating contraption, her massive ego warring with her reality.
"Fine," Tally hissed, her face burning red. She pointed a manicured finger at the thick washcloth strapped inside the cardboard. "But how do I use it when it gets full? You only made one. Where's the box?"
"There is no box," Renee said coldly. "When it gets full, you take it off, you run the washcloth under the sink, you wring the blood out, and you reuse it."
Tally went completely pale. Her jaw literally dropped.
"Excuse me?" Tally whispered, vibrating with horror.
"You rinse it. You wring it out. You tie it back on," Renee said slowly, enunciating every word.
"Eww!" Tally screamed, echoing shrilly off the tile. "What the actual fuck? Hell no! I am a junior in high school, not a medieval peasant! I am not washing my own blood out of a dirty rag with my bare hands! That is disgusting! I'll catch a disease!"
Something inside Renee cleanly, finally snapped.
The stress. Dot dying. Kimmie missing. All of it crystallized into a cold, hard spike of pure rage.
Renee reached out, moving so fast Tally didn't even have time to blink, and snatched Troy's sweatpants and the Nike shirt right off the toilet tank.
"Hey!" Tally yelled, lunging for them. "What are you doing?!"
"Taking them back," Renee said, stepping into the hallway. "I am officially done with you."
"You can't take them back!" Tally shrieked, panic overtaking her. "My leggings are ruined! I don't have anything to wear!"
"Then hand-wash your bloody leggings in the sink," Renee said, her amber eyes burning. "Scrub the spandex until your manicured fingers bleed. Or put them back on wet. I don't care."
"I don't know how to wash clothes in a sink!" Tally panicked, her pride completely shattering. "My mom has a housekeeper! I've never washed anything by hand!"
"Then bleed and get eaten," Renee stated flatly. She didn't blink. She didn't offer a shred of sympathy. "I truly do not give a single fuck anymore, Tally. Stand in there and bitch about the paper towel roll until the mechanics smell you, break down that door, and rip your throat out. I will not lose a second of sleep over it."
Tally stared at her, stunned. She was a master at manipulating adults, wearing them down with relentless bitchiness until they caved just to shut her up. But looking into Renee's eyes, Tally realized the older woman would happily leave her to die in this bathroom.
Tally's lower lip trembled, but her suffocating pride was a rigid thing. She refused to apologize. Instead, she snatched the cardboard pad and the clean towel tight against her chest so Renee couldn't take them too.
She glared at Renee with pure, venomous hatred. "Screw you."
Tally violently slammed the door directly in Renee's face. The deadbolt clicked with an angry snap.
Renee stood in the hallway for a few seconds, listening as the sink faucet squealed on inside the bathroom. Tally was actually going to try to wash her high-end yoga leggings with a sliver of cheap soap. It was going to take her a freezing, miserable hour, and she was going to have to wear them wet. Good.
Renee turned her back and walked into the dark, stifling bedroom.
She stood in front of the cheap particle-board dresser, holding Troy's oversized clothes. The anger vanished the second she stepped into Kimmie's space, instantly replaced by a crushing, hollow weight.
She opened the bottom drawer to shove the sweatpants back inside. As she pushed the heavy fleece in, her knuckles knocked against something hard buried beneath a pile of Kimmie's frayed maternity bras.
Renee frowned. She pulled the bras aside.
Her fingers closed around a black velvet jewelry pouch. It was heavy, but not with rings or necklaces.
Renee pulled the bag into the dim light and tipped the contents out onto the dresser.
Three brightly colored plastic straws clattered out, hitting a pile of loose change. Beside them fell a broken rectangular makeup mirror and a tarnished razor blade.
Renee stopped breathing.
The straws were cut down to exactly three inches. The jagged edges were coated inside with a powdery white residue.
It was Kimmie's stash kit. She hadn't even hidden it from Troy. Troy was probably the one buying it for her. It was only hidden from Renee.
The betrayal hit her like a physical blow, doubling her over. A memory, sharp and bitterly ironic, ripped into her mind.
Four Months Ago. August 2025.
The AC in the Savannah Diner was blasting, freezing the condensation on the windows. Renee sat in the cracked vinyl booth, staring at her younger sister.
Kimmie looked like hell. Her blonde hair was brittle, pulled into a messy bun. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and she couldn't stop moving. Her leg bounced frantically, vibrating the table. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her jaw grinding.
"I'm telling you, Ren," Kimmie rushed out, words spilling in a rapid torrent. "Troy is doing so much better. He's got three private lessons lined up this week at the municipal course. Cash under the table. It's good money. We're turning a corner."
Renee didn't say anything. She just reached across the table, grabbed Kimmie's wrist, and forced her hand down, exposing the tiny speck of white powder on the edge of her nostril.
Kimmie froze. She jerked her hand back, scrubbing her nose with a napkin, but she didn't look ashamed.
"How much are you doing, Kim?" Renee asked, her voice deadly and broken.
"It's not a big deal," Kimmie pitched high, defensive. "Troy brings it home. It helps us unwind! He works hard giving those lessons, Renee. Standing out in the sun all day makes his shoulder hurt. It's just a little pick-me-up. We do it together."
"You're living in a dope house, Kimmie," Renee hissed, leaning over the table. "I spent my entire childhood pulling our mother off the floor. I know what a junkie looks like. I know what it sounds like. You're tweaking in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon."
"We're not junkies!" Kimmie slammed her hands down. "And we're stopping anyway! We're totally done. Because of this."
Her hands shook as she pulled a folded glossy paper from her purse and slid it across the sticky table. It was an ultrasound. A tiny, blurry, peanut-shaped smudge in the dark.
"I'm ten weeks," Kimmie said, a terrifying, manic smile spreading across her face.
Renee stared at the ultrasound, the air leaving her lungs. "Kimmie... you're doing coke, and you're pregnant?"
"I just found out!" Kimmie insisted. "And it's a good thing, Ren! Don't look at me like that! This baby is exactly what we needed to ground us."
"A baby isn't a band-aid," Renee said, her eyes blazing. "You cannot put a child through what Mom put us through."
"I won't!" Kimmie leaned forward, eyes wide and desperate, completely lost in her own delusion. "This baby is going to fix everything. It's going to make Troy step up. He's going to get his shit together, stop messing around with the pills, and get back on the PGA tour! He's going to get back on top! This baby is going to be the absolute best thing for us. We're going to be a real family. I promise, Renee. We're done with the drugs."
Present Day. Wednesday, December 10, 2025.
The memory faded, leaving Renee alone in the dark.
She stared at the powder-coated straws and the razor blade. Kimmie had lied. She had sat in that diner, high, and convinced herself that a baby would magically fix her husband's shattered career and their mutual addiction. She had brought a kid into a squalid apartment, letting Troy drag her down while she chased a synthetic high, right up until the world literally ended.
"You promised me," Renee whispered, her voice a ragged rasp.
Her hands shook violently. She picked up the plastic straws, feeling the jagged edges. The devastating hopelessness of it all finally broke her clinical armor.
Renee sank to the filthy carpet, pressing her back against the dresser. She pulled her knees to her chest, clutching the straws in her fists.
Outside, the city was burning.
And somewhere in the dark, blood-soaked corridors of Memorial Hospital, her pregnant, addicted little sister was either fighting for her life, or she was already gone.
Renee buried her face in her knees, the tears finally breaking through, completely crushed by the gravity of a world that refused to give them a single break.
"Are you even alive, Kimmie?" Renee sobbed quietly into the dark. "Are you even alive?"
Wednesday, December 10, 2025, 3:39 PM
Countdown to Extraction: 59 Hours, 02 Minutes Remaining