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.

After the finals, I estimated my score. It was about 20 points higher than my best practice test.

Winterford Institute of Technology. I had it in the bag.

The admission letter arrived on a day my dad was not home.

When I took the envelope from the mail carrier, with the words [Winterford Institute of Technology] printed on it, my hands were shaking. I hid it at the very bottom of my backpack. Then, like always, I picked up a mop and started cleaning the floor.

I did not say a word about it. Not until the day before school started.

That day, I packed everything I owned into one bag. Then, I set my acceptance letter and my ticket on the dining table.

"I'm leaving after dinner. I'm going to Winterford Institute of Technology."

My dad was in the middle of serving Brian a piece of stewed beef. His hand shook, and the piece of meat slipped from his fork onto the table.

He grabbed the acceptance letter, staring at the school name for a long time, then looked at me in disbelief.

"Winterford? Why are you going all the way out there? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how expensive that is? I'm telling you, the local state college is just fine. It's close to home and a lot cheaper!"

"I'm going there."

"And what about your tuition?" he said with an icy laugh, like he had finally found my weak spot. "Don't expect a single cent from me. Let's see how you're going to pull this off."

Brian chimed in from the side, grinning. "Exactly! No money, and you still want to go to college? Winterford Institute of Technology? Keep dreaming!"

I ignored him and pulled a heavy metal box out from under my bed.

Inside was a stack of cash. Ones, fives, tens, and twenties, with a few hundred-dollar bills mixed in, piled into a small mound.

Every dollar I had ever earned. Paid for with sweat, bruises, and whatever pride I had left, starting from elementary school.

I had 8,365 dollars and 50 cents.

"Th…that much money… When did you save all this?" My dad stared at the pile, his eyes wide.

"From the day you told me I had to earn every cent myself."

I stood up and slung my already packed bag over my shoulder.

"This is enough for my first year's tuition and transportation. The rest, I'll earn on my own."

"Chester!" My dad shot to his feet, his face dark with anger. "You think you can just leave? What about this family? Who's going to do all the work?"

That question was the funniest joke I had ever heard. I turned back, looked at his furious face, and for the first time, I smiled.

"Dad, you can hire another hourly worker. However, I doubt you'll find one as cheap and efficient as me."

With that, I pulled open the door and walked out without looking back.

Behind me, his voice exploded into a hysterical shout.

"Chester! If you've got the guts to leave, then don't ever come back! I'll be waiting to see you starve out there! Don't come crawling back to beg me when that happens!"

I had just reached the bottom of the building, ready to run toward freedom, when a scream came from behind me.

"You can leave, but the money stays!"

I spun around. My dad and Brian were charging down the stairs like they had lost their minds.

"You're my son! Your life belongs to me! That money does, too!" he roared, lunging straight for the backpack on my shoulders.

Brian rushed in from the other side, reaching for my ticket. "No money, and you think you can run? Hand it over!"

I only had three hours before my bus departed.

They blocked me at the building entrance. Behind me was endless darkness. In front of me stood two robbers.

I gripped the straps of my backpack tightly and looked at their twisted faces.

Only one thought remained in my mind: no one could stop me from leaving.