But my legs were dead weight. Useless logs that refused to obey.
I shuffled awkwardly, fighting for balance. Every step was clumsy. Grotesque. One shoulder hiked up, the other dipped low, my whole body twisting against gravity like a marionette with tangled strings.
"*Pfft*—"
A sharp, clear snicker cut through the cold air.
I froze. Locked in that twisted, pathetic posture. Too terrified to turn around.
But the voices drilled into my skull anyway.
"What is she *doing*? Dancing?" Saccharine. Mocking. Charlotte.
"Why does she walk like that? It looks... wrong." Another woman.
"It looks *pitiful*."
The fragmented laughter and cruel whispers blended with the festive New Year cheers, stabbing into a back that had long since gone numb to insults. My spine stiffened. My fingers dug into the wooden handle until my knuckles went white.
I didn't turn around.
I only heard the crisp *clack-clack-clack* of approaching heels.
Anna Finch. Charlotte's best friend—a woman who always looked at people like they were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
She walked straight up to my cart. Reached out.
*Clang.*
She flipped the rusty tin cash box by the stove.
Coins and crumpled bills scattered across the wet pavement.
My head buzzed. Without thinking, I dropped into a crouch, clawing at the money. My frozen fingers were stiff, slow, pathetically clumsy.
A folded piece of paper slipped from my pocket.
My medical diagnosis.
A shiny leather shoe stepped onto the corner.
I followed the crease of the trousers upward.
Liam.
He bent down, pinching the damp corner of the paper between two fingers, and unfolded it.
I stayed crouched in the slush, looking up at him. Behind his silhouette, fireworks continued to burst, the flickering light catching the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows.
The diagnosis read clearly: *Sequelae of traumatic brain injury. Cerebellar ataxia. Systematic rehabilitation recommended.*
Liam's gaze shifted from the page to my face.
For one second—just one—a tremor passed through his eyes. A crack in the ice.
"Liam, what are you looking at?"
Charlotte leaned over, glancing at the paper. A scoff escaped her glossed lips.
"Oh my *god*. What is this act? Forging medical records now?" She tilted her head, her smile razor-sharp. "Freya, I haven't seen you in years, but your methods for fishing sympathy have really kept up with the times."
Liam's grip on the paper tightened.
The flicker of emotion vanished. Replaced by cold fury—the look of a man who believed he was being played.
"Freya Swanson." His voice dripped with disdain. "Your acting is impeccable."
He flicked his wrist.
The diagnosis sheet sailed through the air and landed in a nearby trash can.
He turned, grabbing Charlotte's hand. "Let's go."
As Charlotte let him pull her away, she cast a quick, meaningful glance at Anna and the others.
They understood the assignment.
The moment Liam's figure disappeared into the crowd, they surrounded me.
One of them lashed out, kicking the side of my cart.
The stove overturned with a deafening crash. Scalding sweet potatoes spilled out, rolling through the dirty snow.
I stared at the mess. My blood ran cold.
"Bad people! You're *bad* people!"
A childish, slurring voice shouted from the distance.
Xavier Kelley.
I'd first met Xavier squatting under a bridge. An old scavenger told me a high fever in childhood had damaged his brain, and his family had thrown him away like garbage. Seeing a reflection of my own misery, I always saved a sweet potato for him.
He came running now, his matted hair bouncing wildly. The moment he saw the potatoes on the ground, he dropped into a squat to help me gather them.
"Don't pick them up! They're dirty—" The words caught in my throat.
Anna snickered.
She lifted her stiletto heel and brought it down—hard—on the back of Xavier's hand.
"*Ah—!*"
His scream tore through the night.
