My father trembled from head to toe.
"Cecil, you moved under this bridge on purpose—to play the victim! You want your mother and me drowned in gossip, is that it?!"
"Don't think I can't see through you. This is all just another one of your schemes!"
"All so you can bleed us dry!"
"You've been cunning since you were a kid—always knew how to play the pity card!"
"Before, you used your own son's illness to lie and con money out of us, out of the whole family!"
"And now you've outdone yourself. To milk sympathy, to make sure everyone points fingers at us, you came out here and set up camp under a bridge like it's some kind of performance!"
"All this drama—you're just trying to force us into giving you money!"
My father dug into his canvas bag and pulled out a thick stack of bills.
"Two hundred thousand dollars. Every last cent!"
"You said your son was critically ill and you couldn't afford treatment? Where is he?"
"Bring your son out here! Let everyone see just how sick he really is!"
My mother's voice rose to match his.
"Exactly! The second you heard we had money, suddenly your son is deathly ill and needs cash. What a coincidence!"
"We brought all our relatives and neighbors here on purpose—to prove to everyone that you're nothing but a schemer, a liar, putting on a show and crying poor!"
"Your son's so sick? Then bring him out! Let everyone see for themselves!"
"Today, I'm going to make sure every single person here knows your son isn't sick at all. This whole thing is an act!"
Patrice glanced around the space beneath the overpass. No sign of a child. Confusion creased her brow.
"It's the weekend. Where's Abner? Why isn't he here with you?"
She turned to me, her tone softening.
"Your parents are genuinely angry this time. Just bring Abner out and let them see him. Clear up the misunderstanding."
"They brought the money. Don't keep butting heads with them."
Other relatives chimed in one after another.
"She's right. Family grudges shouldn't last overnight. Let the boy come out, clear the air, and that'll be the end of it."
"You're a grown man—living under an overpass is one thing. But the child is young, his body's fragile. You can't let him ruin his health like this."
"We've been standing here talking for ages and haven't seen the kid once. Where is he? Just bring him out already!"
Under the weight of all their urging, I raised my hand and pointed to the corner—to the urn sitting there, the one I couldn't afford a burial plot for.
My voice broke.
"He's right there."
