Chapter 4

There were squabs all over the rooftop, cooing and strutting around, plump and well-fed.

I had heard that squab broth was especially good for health.

I was sobbing, chasing them around, and apologizing, "I'm sorry. My husband needs you."

After an hour of fumbling and chasing, I finally managed to trap two of the fattest ones under an abandoned box.

To keep as much of the "essence" as I could, I didn't bother with anything fancy. I simply knocked them out.

Meat alone wasn't enough. It needed something green to go with it.

There were some weeds growing out of the cracks on the rooftop. I figured if they could survive up there, they had to be strong.

I cried as I pulled up a big handful.

Back inside, I found an old alcohol burner and a forgotten beaker in a room where medical waste was stored for pickup.

Best of all, I found a whole case of protein drinks meant for critical patients. They had just expired. The label boasted "high-concentration formula".

Just because they were expired didn't mean they were useless. The good stuff had to still be in there.

I stuffed the two squabs, feathers and all, along with a fistful of weeds and more than a dozen protein packets into the beaker.

I lit the burner and let it simmer all afternoon.

When I finally made it back to the hospital room with that cup of mush, Joel and Ella had woken up as the sedatives wore off.

The moment they saw me, their eyes went wide, as if they'd seen a ghost.

I held out the beaker and tried to explain, "Joel, Ella, I made you something good to help you recover.

"I caught the squabs myself, added some weeds from the rooftop, and the hospital's medicine. Eat it, and you'll feel better."

The smell hit Ella, and her stomach lurched. She gagged on the spot.

Joel was even angrier, veins standing out as he roared with everything he had, "Get out. Take that away, you crazy witch."

It broke my heart.

They didn't understand how hard I was trying. They had to be too weak from being sick to eat it themselves.

I had to help them.

I set the beaker down on the nightstand, picked up a spoon, scooped up a spoonful of the steaming mixture, and walked over to Joel. "Joel, come on, open your mouth. Let me help you."

"Fuck off." Joel jerked his head desperately, but with his hands and feet strapped down, all he could do was twist around helplessly.

Tears of fake concern rolled down my cheeks as I grabbed his jaw with one hand and, with the other, forced that spoonful of scalding liquid straight into his mouth.

A tortured cry ripped from Joel's throat.

Almost instantly, he started convulsing. Red blotches spread across his skin. "H-help."

I freaked out, thinking one spoonful wasn't enough.

Therefore, I grabbed the beaker and rushed to Ella's bed, crying, "Ella, come on, eat it. Joel doesn't look good."

I pinched her nose and forced almost the entire cup of mush down her throat.

Ella had it worse. She vomited violently, spraying the contents of her stomach everywhere.

The heart monitors started blaring, both their heart rates shooting up like crazy.

"What's happening here?" The door burst open as the attending physician rushed in with several nurses.

They were stunned by the chaos before their eyes.

One of them was convulsing on the bed, foaming at the mouth. The other was on the floor, throwing up.

And there I was, kneeling between them, splattered with vomit, crying with a look of terrified innocence.

I trembled. "I-I just wanted to help them get better."

Through my sobs, I pointed at the empty beaker and explained every ingredient in my "magic food".

The attending physician's face went from ashen to furious. His hands trembled as he pushed up his glasses.

He glanced at the two suffering patients, then at me. He took a deep breath, turned to the nurses, and ordered, "Call the police, right now."

The cops showed up fast, and they even brought along two psychiatrists.

They took me into a quiet room. I was still covered in vomit, shaking, and crying.

"Mrs. Owens, can you tell us why you gave them that... whatever it was?" the cop asked seriously.

Instead of answering, I fumbled in my pocket, pulled out a tiny recorder with trembling hands, and set it on the table.

I said, "Sir, I worry about everything. I worry about myself and my husband. My memory isn't very good, and he yells at me a lot. I was scared I'd forget what he said, so I recorded it."

I hit play.

Joel's furious roar blared from the recorder. "Cut the crap and fuck off. I'm taking Ella out tonight to smash that damn record.

"What the hell is wrong with you? We're going racing, not playing with pillows.

"You're so pathetic. What's that look on your face? Can't wait to see me kick the bucket?"

"Get out. Take that away, you crazy witch.

"Sign it. Now.

"You're a fucking psycho. I'm gonna kill you."

Every line was full of anger and threats.

The recordings laid bare how, day by day, he had pushed me deeper into fear.