My father raised me on one principle: fair exchange.

If I wanted anything, I had to earn it myself.

Fifty cents for washing the dishes. A dollar for mopping the floor. Five dollars for a perfect score on a test.

To buy the pair of white sneakers I had been dreaming of, I spent three months collecting recyclables.

In that house, I lived like a pieceworker, paid by the task.

It was not until my senior year of high school that everything began to crack. I collapsed during morning study, my body worn down by years of malnutrition.

The doctor said I needed better nutrition.

My father stood by my hospital bed and started doing the math.

"Three hundred for the hospital stay. Two hundred for medication. Chester, this all goes on your tab for the future."

I turned my head and saw a boy in a school uniform in the next bed. His father was feeding him spoonfuls of chicken soup, his eyes red with worry.

In that moment, the world I had known for 18 years fell apart.

It turned out not every child had to earn their parents' love.

After I was discharged, I went home and saw the pair of designer sneakers on my brother's feet; it was worth thousands.

That was when I finally woke up.

I tore up the family photo and, without hesitation, applied to the college farthest from home.

Ten years later, my father called me in tears. My brother had taken all his retirement savings, sold the house, and run off with his girlfriend.

He was left with nothing. No home. No one.

I smiled and tossed him a rag.

"Want a place to stay? Sure. It's 50 cents per window. Earn your own rent."

The sharp smell of disinfectant hit my nose, and that was when my consciousness finally started to come back.

The first thing I saw was my dad's face, so icy it seemed to freeze the room.

"You're awake?"

He did not even look up. His fingers kept tapping away at a calculator, the buttons clicking nonstop.

"The doctor said it's just low blood sugar and malnutrition. Nothing serious.

"Hospital fee, 300. Tests, 180. Medicine, 120. Chester, I'll cover this for you for now."

He lifted his head and turned the calculator toward me. The screen showed a number: 600.

My lips were so dry and cracked that I could not get a single word out.

During morning study, I was reciting vocabulary when everything suddenly went black, and I collapsed.

Right before I lost consciousness, my last thought was that my perfect attendance bonus for the month was gone.

Yeah. To keep me motivated, my dad had made a rule. No being late, no leaving early for an entire month, and I would get 50 bucks.

However, 50 dollars was not even one-tenth of the hospital bill.

"Dad…" I struggled to sit up.

He frowned and pressed me back down. "Don't move. If you break any equipment, that's more money."

Just then, a gentle voice came from the bed next to mine.

"Careful, it's still hot. Don't burn yourself. No one's taking it from you."

I turned my head. A boy about my age, wearing the same school uniform, was leaning against his bed. His dad stood beside him, holding a thermos. Spoonful by spoonful, he blew on the chicken soup to cool it before bringing it to his son's lips.

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to feed me," the boy said, a little embarrassed.

"No matter how old you are, you're still my son." His dad wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice thick with worry. "Look at you. You're so pale. Senior year is wearing you down. When we get home, I'll make you soup every day. Your health matters more than school. Worst case, you skip the exams. I can take care of you for the rest of your life."

The boy smiled, his eyes shining.

I stared at the steaming bowl of chicken soup, my stomach twisting with a sour ache.

My whole life, I had never had anything like that. Forget chicken soup. Even a boiled egg had to be earned with what my dad called 'chore credits.'

If I swept the floor once, I would get one credit. If I did all the laundry, three. Each credit was worth 50 cents. One boiled egg would cost two.

That was my dad's idea of a 'fair exchange.'

In our house, love was a luxury. It had a price tag.

Seeing me stare at the next bed, my dad curled his lips.

"What are you looking at? That kid was born lucky. You're just a nobody. If you don't earn it yourself, who will feed you?"

His words cut deep, hitting exactly where it hurt most.

The father and son next door fell silent, both looking at me with sympathy.

So, that was my life. Born to be a piece-rate worker in my own home.

It seemed like fathers like that really did exist. The kind who gave without counting the cost, without asking for anything in return.

I slowly closed my eyes and forced the tears back. Then, I looked at my dad's sharp, self-righteous face and calmly said, "Dad, don't worry.

"I'll return the 600 dollars to you.

"And every cent you've spent raising me these past 18 years."

The day I was discharged, my dad dropped me off at a bus stop and left in a taxi.

His reason was simple.

"I've already paid 600 for you. I'm not wasting another 20 on a cab."

I clenched the last of my change and took the bus home. The ride took a full hour.

When I pushed the door open, my younger brother, Brian Jones, who was two years younger than me, was pacing around the living room in a brand new pair of limited-edition Adidas sneakers.

"Hey, bro, check these out. Aren't they awesome? Over 2,000 dollars!" he said, grinning with pride.

I looked at his shoes, then down at my own. My canvas sneakers were faded from too many washes, the soles worn so thin they were almost gone. I did not say a word.

My shoes were what I called a luxury. Twenty bucks, earned after three months of collecting recyclables.

My dad leaned out from the kitchen. The moment he saw me, his face darkened.

"You're back? Thought you dropped dead in the hospital. Hurry up. The dishes are piling up. Wash them, and I'll give you two bucks. Consider it part of your college fund."

As he spoke, he turned to Brian with a completely different expression, his eyes soft with affection. "Brian looks so handsome in those. Like a movie star. Come on, I'll take you out for KFC."

Brian whooped with excitement. As he passed me, he deliberately stepped on my foot.

"What are you staring at, loser?" he muttered under his breath.

I lowered my head and stared at the dirty footprint on my shoe. Slowly, I clenched my fists.

That was not new.

As far back as I could remember, that kind of contrast had always been there.

In third grade, a boy named Jim Rogers from the class next door got a brand new pair of jeans. I was so jealous that I could not stop thinking about them.

That night, I tugged at my dad's sleeve and begged him for hours.

He was watching TV and did not even glance at me. "You want them? Fine. They cost 80 dollars. Save it yourself."

I dug out my piggy bank, which was just an old cookie tin, and poured out all my coins. I counted them three times.

I only had 26 dollars and 50 cents.

Every cent I had came from running errands, picking up groceries, scrubbing toilets, and taking out the trash.

I earned it all, one penny at a time.

"Not enough," he said. "If you want it, sweep the floor. I'll give you 50 cents. Save up, and then you can buy it."

For that pair of jeans, I turned into a spinning top.

Every day after school, the first thing I did was rush to do chores.

In winter, the water from the tap felt like shards of ice. My hands swelled up with chilblains, red and cracked, with tiny cuts splitting open across my skin. Every drop of water stung.

When my dad saw that, he just tossed me a cheap tin of hand cream from the drawer.

"Put it on. Don't let it slow you down. Since you look so pitiful, I'll raise the dishwashing pay to 2 dollars and 50 cents tonight."

That extra 50 cents felt like a huge reward back then.

It took me four full months to finally save up 80 dollars.

When I held that pile of coins out to him, practically glowing with excitement, he counted them, then frowned.

"It's cold now. Those jeans are for summer. Buying them now would be a waste. I'll keep this money for you. We'll count it toward your textbook fees next semester."

That winter, I was still wearing my old padded jacket with frayed cuffs.

Meanwhile, Brian rolled around in the snow in his brand-new down coat.

I could not help asking, "Dad, why doesn't Brian have to do chores to get new clothes?"

He brushed the snow off Brian's shoulders, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"He's your younger brother. As the older one, shouldn't you give in to him? Brian's different from you. He's going to live a good life someday."

Back then, I did not understand what 'different' meant. I just thought I had not worked hard enough yet. That I had not saved enough to earn that kind of free privilege.

I finally understood.

In his world, my brother was family. An investment.

Me?

I was an outsider. A tool that worked to pay for its own survival.

I walked into the kitchen and looked at the mountain of greasy dishes. Then, I plunged my hands into the freezing water.

After I was done, I took out the small notebook I kept hidden in my pocket and carefully wrote down some details.

[Senior year. Fainted. Hospital debt: 600.]

[Goal: Get out of there.]

[Step one: Get into the farthest college possible.]

Ever since I got out of the hospital, I had lived like a machine wound too tight.

I studied nonstop at school during the day, then worked nonstop at home at night.

Sleep became a luxury I could not afford. I grabbed ten-minute naps between classes or memorized vocabulary as I walked, whispering the words under my breath.

One day, my teacher called me in. She looked at the dark circles under my eyes, her face full of concern.

"Chester, you haven't seemed like yourself lately. Your grades have been slipping. If this continues, getting into a top school may be tough. Is everything okay at home?"

I shook my head and forced out a smile that looked worse than crying.

"It's nothing. I've just been inefficient with my studying."

I did not dare tell her the truth. If I did, she might visit my home. She might talk to my dad.

That would only make things worse.

He would think I was complaining about him behind his back, embarrassing him. Then, he would take it out on me, turning his anger into more chores, more bills, and more debts for me to carry.

I clenched my terrible report card so tightly my knuckles turned white.

When I got home, there was no comfort waiting for me. Just another round of my dad's 'evaluation.'

"Scores like these? Guess this is your limit." He leaned back on the couch, tossing peanut shells onto the floor. "I've told you before, all this studying is pointless. You'd be better off getting a job early and helping out around the house."

"Oh, right," he said casually. "Your brother wants to sign up for guitar lessons. It's 2,000 dollars a semester. How's your college fund coming along? If you can't get into a good school, don't waste the money. Hand it over so we can pay for your brother's classes."

For a moment, it felt like all the blood in my body froze.

The little bit of money I had scraped together, paid for with endless nights and cracked, bleeding hands, meant less to them than one of my brother's hobbies.

Brian sat nearby, playing video games. When he heard that, he looked up and shouted, "Yeah! Dad's right! You're not getting in anyway. Might as well give me the money!"

I looked at the two of them, at their perfectly reasonable expressions, and felt my stomach churn.

I did not cry. I did not argue. I knew tears were the cheapest thing in that house. It was worth nothing.

I kept quiet. I just picked up a broom and started sweeping the shells scattered all over the floor.

"Five bucks for sweeping. Clean the bathroom later, and it's ten. That's 15 today. I'll pay you right after," my dad said, mistaking my silence for obedience, acting generous for once.

I nodded. "Okay."

I needed money. For transportation, for tuition, and for whatever it would take to survive after I got out of there.

That night, I crouched on the cold bathroom tiles, scrubbing the toilet, my mind racing.

Exhausted.

Desperate.

Rebellion.

Escape.

Each word felt like a blade carving itself into my heart.

I scrubbed harder and harder until every tile in the bathroom shone.

When my dad came to check, he nodded in satisfaction and pulled 15 dollars from his wallet.

"Not bad. Here, take it."

I took the money and slipped the bills into my pocket.

Back in my room, I opened my ledger and wrote in it.

[Debt: 600.]

[Repaid: 15.]

Then, I unfolded a map.

My gaze drifted north, all the way from Southridge, past so many cities and states, until it finally settled on Winterford.

More than 2,000 kilometers away. A city of ice and snow.

Far enough.

I closed the map, pulled out a practice test, and dove back into solving problems like my life depended on it.