Chapter 1: Twelve Pills

The first thing I remember is the smell of sickness. A sweet, heavy odor of old flowers and medicine, soaked into everything in our apartment—the couch, the curtains, my clothes. I was convinced that if I could just get us into a place that didn’t smell like dying, my mom might actually get better.

The second thing is the sound. The cough. A deep, rattling tremor that shook her whole thin frame. It was the soundtrack to my life, a constant reminder of the ticking clock I couldn’t stop.

I was counting the pills in the orange plastic bottle on the kitchen table. Twelve. Twelve little white soldiers between my mom and the pain that made her eyes go glassy and far away. A sticky note beside it read: $85. I had seventeen dollars in my old wallet and a hollow feeling in my stomach.

“Elaine? Honey, are you still here?” Her voice was a wisp, thin as paper.

“I’m here, Mom.” I put the bottle down, the plastic clicking softly against the Formica. I walked to her bedroom doorway. She was propped on pillows, a library book open but unread on her lap. Marie Keller was still in there, behind the fever-bright eyes and pale skin. I could still see the woman who used to sing too loudly in the car and put glitter on everything.

“Don’t you be late for school,” she said, trying to sound firm. The effort ended in another wrenching series of coughs that made my own chest ache.

“I won’t,” I lied. School had become a distant concern, like a TV show playing in another room. My real classes were in calculating co-pays, deciphering insurance statements, and figuring out how to make a can of soup last for two dinners.

My plan was stupid, desperate, and I knew it as I pulled on my worn-out sneakers. But the seventeen dollars screamed at me, and the twelve pills whispered. Mr. Petrov’s Jewelry & Pawn was a few blocks out of my way. He had a case full of glittering things. He also had a security camera with a blinking red light that had been dark for weeks, and he spent his mornings in the back, listening to scratchy Russian talk radio.

I wasn’t going to take much. Just one small, valuable thing. Something he’d probably write off as misplaced. I told myself it wasn’t really stealing. It was survival. A loan from a universe that had forgotten us.

I kissed my mom’s warm forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you more, my girl,” she whispered.

The walk to Petrov’s felt like a dream. My heart was a frantic drum. The bell above the door jingled, a ridiculously cheerful sound. The shop smelled of dust and metal. Mr. Petrov, a large man with a thick grey beard, glanced up, gave me a dismissive once-over, and disappeared into the back. The radio volume increased. Classic.

My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans, inching toward the glass case near the window. My eyes landed on a tray of rings. One, a delicate silver band with a small, dark blue sapphire, winked at me. It was the kind of thing my mom would have loved. It was perfect.

The case was unlocked.

My breath hitched. This was the sign. I glanced toward the back room. The radio was now playing a booming opera. My hand darted in, my fingers closing around the cool metal. It was smaller than I thought. I slipped it into my hoodie pocket, the weight feeling like a brick.

I turned to leave, my legs like water.

The opera stopped.

“What is in your pocket, girl?”

Mr. Petrov’s voice was low and cold. He stood at the entrance to the back room, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was staring directly at the pocket of my hoodie, which bulged with a perfectly ring-shaped lump.

I froze. The world shrank to the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.

“Nothing,” I squeaked.

He moved fast. Before I could bolt, his hand clamped around my wrist. “You think I am a fool? You all have desperate eyes.”

He pulled the ring from my pocket. The sapphire looked dull now, like a dead eye.

“Please,” I begged, tears springing hot. “My mom ... she’s sick. She needs medicine. I’m sorry, I’ll never—”

“Save it for the police,” he grunted, pulling me toward the phone.

The police. A record. Juvie. My mom, alone. The $85 prescription fee suddenly seemed like the smallest number in the world. I had just traded my entire future for a tiny, blue stone.

The police station was a blur of beige walls and stale coffee. The officer, a woman with kind eyes named Tina McKenzie, didn’t cuff me. She just opened the back door of the squad car and said, “Watch your head,” in a voice of pure routine.

I answered questions in a voice I didn’t recognize. My name. My age. My address. Each one was a betrayal.

They called my mom. I heard Officer McKenzie’s low, careful voice. “ ... charged with grand larceny ... valued at over a thousand dollars...”

A thousand dollars. The number was so big it felt imaginary. This wasn’t a mistake. It was a real crime.

When my mom arrived, she was a ghost. Her coat was buttoned wrong. Her eyes found me, relief swallowed by a terror so deep it stopped my breath. She rushed over, her hands fluttering over my face. “Elaine, baby, what did you do?”

A man in a rumpled suit introduced himself as Idris Guerrero, a public defender. He led us to a small, windowless room.

He explained it all calmly. The charge. The possible sentences. Because of the value, they could try me as an adult. Juvie was the best-case scenario for years.

My mom started to cry, a silent, hopeless weeping. “She’s a good girl. She was just trying to help me.”

“I understand,” Idris said, and he sounded like he meant it. “There might be another way. A pilot program. A restorative justice track. An alternative to incarceration.”

Hope flickered in my chest. “Like community service?”

“Something like that.” He focused on my mom. “It’s about being visibly accountable to the community. It’s non-cerebral. She would stay at home with you.”

Stay at home. The words were a balm.

“What does ‘visibly accountable’ mean?” my mom asked.

“It means the sentence is public,” Idris explained carefully. “The terms are binding. If you plead guilty, you accept the sentence. No appeals.”

“What kind of public sentence?” I pressed, imagining a sign and roadside trash.

Idris took a deep breath. “The program is called ‘The Glass Sentence.’”

The Glass Sentence. It sounded modern, clean. Not like cages.

“I don’t want to go to jail,” I whispered.

My mom began to protest, but a coughing fit seized her, bending her double.

I looked at Mr. Guerrero. “If I do this, can I stay home? Take care of her?”

He nodded. “Released to her custody immediately.”

That was all I needed to hear.

“I’ll do it,” I said, the words final. “I’ll plead guilty.”

“Elaine, no,” my mom gasped, but the fight was gone from her.

Idris Guerrero looked at me, his eyes filled with a pity I didn’t understand. “Are you sure? Once you agree, there’s no going back.”