The days blur together in a fog of gnawing hunger and desperate failure.
Tuesday you tried washing someone's car for ten bucks. Your body could barely squeeze between the vehicle and the trailer beside it. Wednesday you hauled trash bags—three of them—and had to stop twice to catch your breath, wheezing like a broken accordion. The resident paid you fifteen dollars and wouldn't meet your eyes. Thursday morning you were so hungry your hands shook. The money you'd scraped together—twenty-eight dollars—went to gas station food that disappeared in minutes and left you emptier than before.
Thursday afternoon, the hunger became unbearable. You found yourself outside Lot 23, where an elderly man named Mr. Chen had been grilling earlier. The smell of cooked meat had driven you half-insane. His screen door was unlocked. You told yourself you'd just look. Just see what was there.
The leftover ribs were in a plastic container in his tiny fridge. You were shoving the second one in your mouth when he came out of his bedroom, eyes wide with shock and anger.
"What the hell? You're stealing my food?"
You tried to explain, to apologize, but the words wouldn't come around the meat in your mouth. He grabbed your arm—his grip surprisingly strong—and marched you straight to Eugene's office.
Now it's Friday morning, and you're standing in that same office again, Mr. Chen beside you, Eugene behind his desk with that expression of pure vindictive joy.
"Theft from another resident," Eugene says, consulting his clipboard. "That's clause twenty-three. Pretty serious, Carla. Mr. Chen here is understandably upset."
"She ate four ribs!" Mr. Chen's voice cracks with indignation. "Four! I was saving those!"
"I'm sorry," you manage. "I'll pay you back. I just—I was so hungry—"
"Oh, you're hungry?" Eugene stands up slowly. "Well, let's fix that. Permanently."
The magic hits differently this time. Not painful, exactly, but inexorable. Your body expands like dough rising in fast-forward. The tank top tears at the shoulder seam with a sharp ripping sound. Your belly surges forward and down, hanging over your waistband in a pendulous mass. Your face grows rounder, your neck disappearing into rolls of fat. Your thighs press together so tightly you can feel them fighting for space. Your arms grow so thick they barely hang straight at your sides.
When it finally stops, you're easily another seventy-five pounds heavier. You're grotesquely, impossibly obese. Moving will be agony. Standing is agony.
Eugene walks around you, nodding appreciatively. "Now that's what I call consequences. Mr. Chen, you're compensated. Take twenty bucks from petty cash on your way out."
The old man leaves quickly, not looking at you.
Eugene checks his watch. "It's 11:15 Friday morning. Rent's due in six hours and forty-five minutes. You're broke, you can barely walk, and now you need to come up with four hundred dollars." His grin is the cruelest thing you've ever seen. "Good luck with that, Carla."