Story code: ST-000616
Part 1: Insufficient Funds
The card reader emitted a flat, hollow buzz. Toby stared at the red text on the tiny digital screen, leaning his right hip against the scratched laminate counter of Aisle 3 to keep himself upright. Fourteen dollars and twelve cents for a pair of heavy-duty aviation tin snips. The cashier, a teenager chewing blue bubblegum, tapped a jagged acrylic nail against the scanner. She told him to try wiping the chip on his jeans.
Toby fumbled the plastic card with his right hand. His left arm remained pinned tight against his ribs, buried deep inside a thick, thrift-store winter parka. It was eighty-five degrees out in the blinding asphalt parking lot, but taking the heavy coat off was completely out of the bounds of reality. A suffocating chemical reek of curing epoxy clung to his collar, a sharp, toxic cloud that made the cashier wrinkle her nose and lean back toward the display of impulse-buy flashlights.
He rubbed the chip against his denim thigh, suppressing a groan as the movement sent a fresh spike of white-hot agony radiating from his left elbow. He shoved the card back into the slot. The machine paused, thinking, before buzzing with the exact same dismissive tone. Insufficient funds.
He stared at the tin snips resting on the conveyer belt. The forged steel blades gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights. He desperately needed them to cut through the mounting pressure. Whatever was happening under the rigid, homemade shell on his forearm was getting substantially worse by the hour, the trapped flesh swelling against an unyielding barrier.
The cashier sighed loudly, shifting her weight. A line was forming behind him. A man in work boots cleared his throat. Toby frantically patted his right pocket, searching for crumpled bills he already knew were not there. He mumbled a plea for her to run it as credit, his words slurring slightly from the exhaustion and the dull, rhythmic thudding in his skull.
Then came the sharp, authoritative click of expensive leather heels striking the scuffed linoleum. The sound cut right through the low hum of the hardware store refrigerators.
A manicured hand thrust past Toby’s shoulder. A heavy, solid metal platinum card landed with a decisive clack on top of the card reader.
Toby flinched, twisting his neck to look. Eleanor stood entirely too close, exuding a cloud of bergamot perfume that clashed violently with his toxic resin fumes. She lived in the sprawling, three-million-dollar modern compound at the end of his rutted dirt road. To Eleanor, Toby and his ramshackle artist studio were a perpetual blight on her property values. She was the absolute last person on earth he wanted standing two feet away from him.
Eleanor told the cashier to put the total on her card. Her tone left absolutely zero room for negotiation. She did not look at Toby. She looked at the tin snips, then at the heavy winter parka he was sweating through. Her perfectly arched eyebrows pinched together as the raw smell of industrial adhesives hit her sinuses.
Toby panicked. He reached out with his right hand to snatch his declined debit card and the tin snips off the counter, intending to bolt for the sliding glass exit doors. He told her to back off, his voice cracking into a dry wheeze.
He pivoted too fast. His heavy work boots tangled in the rubber matting at the register. As he stumbled forward to catch his balance, his left side slammed hard against the sharp metal corner of the bagging carousel.
The impact forced a ragged scream from his throat. His right hand instinctively flew to clutch his left arm. The violent, twisting motion was too much for the old parka. The strained zipper burst at the bottom, the teeth separating with a loud hiss. The thick wool coat flapped violently open, catching the downdraft of the overhead air conditioning vent.
Eleanor gasped, stepping backward and knocking into a wire rack of batteries. The cashier stopped chewing her gum.
Without the coat to hide it, the brutal reality of Toby’s situation was completely exposed under the harsh store lighting. His left arm was not in a medical cast. From his wrist to just below his shoulder, the limb was encased in a jagged, misshapen shell of industrial fiberglass boat resin. The crude DIY casing was thick and uneven, bubbling in spots where it had cured too quickly. Far worse than the terrible construction were the dark, rust-colored streaks of dried blood spiderwebbing through the translucent yellow epoxy. The hardened matrix trapped ripped bits of bloody denim, gauze, and dirty paper towels in a permanent, horrifying freeze-frame of a desperate, panicked procedure.
The tin snips sat on the counter, suddenly carrying a very grim implication.
Eleanor stared unblinking at the bloody, homemade shell, her hand slowly dropping into her designer purse to grip her phone.
The card reader emitted a flat, hollow buzz. Toby stared at the red text on the tiny digital screen, leaning his right hip against the scratched laminate counter of Aisle 3 to keep himself upright. Fourteen dollars and twelve cents for a pair of heavy-duty aviation tin snips. The cashier, a teenager chewing blue bubblegum, tapped a jagged acrylic nail against the scanner. She told him to try wiping the chip on his jeans.
Toby fumbled the plastic card with his right hand. His left arm remained pinned tight against his ribs, buried deep inside a thick, thrift-store winter parka. It was eighty-five degrees out in the blinding asphalt parking lot, but taking the heavy coat off was completely out of the bounds of reality. A suffocating chemical reek of curing epoxy clung to his collar, a sharp, toxic cloud that made the cashier wrinkle her nose and lean back toward the display of impulse-buy flashlights.
He rubbed the chip against his denim thigh, suppressing a groan as the movement sent a fresh spike of white-hot agony radiating from his left elbow. He shoved the card back into the slot. The machine paused, thinking, before buzzing with the exact same dismissive tone. Insufficient funds.
He stared at the tin snips resting on the conveyer belt. The forged steel blades gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights. He desperately needed them to cut through the mounting pressure. Whatever was happening under the rigid, homemade shell on his forearm was getting substantially worse by the hour, the trapped flesh swelling against an unyielding barrier.
The cashier sighed loudly, shifting her weight. A line was forming behind him. A man in work boots cleared his throat. Toby frantically patted his right pocket, searching for crumpled bills he already knew were not there. He mumbled a plea for her to run it as credit, his words slurring slightly from the exhaustion and the dull, rhythmic thudding in his skull.
Then came the sharp, authoritative click of expensive leather heels striking the scuffed linoleum. The sound cut right through the low hum of the hardware store refrigerators.
A manicured hand thrust past Toby’s shoulder. A heavy, solid metal platinum card landed with a decisive clack on top of the card reader.
Toby flinched, twisting his neck to look. Eleanor stood entirely too close, exuding a cloud of bergamot perfume that clashed violently with his toxic resin fumes. She lived in the sprawling, three-million-dollar modern compound at the end of his rutted dirt road. To Eleanor, Toby and his ramshackle artist studio were a perpetual blight on her property values. She was the absolute last person on earth he wanted standing two feet away from him.
Eleanor told the cashier to put the total on her card. Her tone left absolutely zero room for negotiation. She did not look at Toby. She looked at the tin snips, then at the heavy winter parka he was sweating through. Her perfectly arched eyebrows pinched together as the raw smell of industrial adhesives hit her sinuses.
Toby panicked. He reached out with his right hand to snatch his declined debit card and the tin snips off the counter, intending to bolt for the sliding glass exit doors. He told her to back off, his voice cracking into a dry wheeze.
He pivoted too fast. His heavy work boots tangled in the rubber matting at the register. As he stumbled forward to catch his balance, his left side slammed hard against the sharp metal corner of the bagging carousel.
The impact forced a ragged scream from his throat. His right hand instinctively flew to clutch his left arm. The violent, twisting motion was too much for the old parka. The strained zipper burst at the bottom, the teeth separating with a loud hiss. The thick wool coat flapped violently open, catching the downdraft of the overhead air conditioning vent.
Eleanor gasped, stepping backward and knocking into a wire rack of batteries. The cashier stopped chewing her gum.
Without the coat to hide it, the brutal reality of Toby’s situation was completely exposed under the harsh store lighting. His left arm was not in a medical cast. From his wrist to just below his shoulder, the limb was encased in a jagged, misshapen shell of industrial fiberglass boat resin. The crude DIY casing was thick and uneven, bubbling in spots where it had cured too quickly. Far worse than the terrible construction were the dark, rust-colored streaks of dried blood spiderwebbing through the translucent yellow epoxy. The hardened matrix trapped ripped bits of bloody denim, gauze, and dirty paper towels in a permanent, horrifying freeze-frame of a desperate, panicked procedure.
The tin snips sat on the counter, suddenly carrying a very grim implication.
Eleanor stared unblinking at the bloody, homemade shell, her hand slowly dropping into her designer purse to grip her phone.