Story code: ST-000428
Part 2: The Covenant
I knew that voice. It was Diane Abernathy, the woman who used to lead the ‘purity and obedience’ seminars at the compound I had fled five years ago. I stared at the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Give me my money back, Diane,” I demanded, dropping any pretense of customer service etiquette. My voice cracked despite my desperate attempt to keep it steady. “That money is for my insulin. I need it to live.”
“The Lord provides for those who walk in His light,” she said, her tone dripping with a toxic, practiced patience. “You signed a covenant of lifetime tithing when you were eighteen, sweetheart. You pledged ten percent of all your earthly income to the congregation. We simply asked a judge in Oakhaven County to enforce the contract you broke when you ran away into a life of sin. We filed the suit under your legal, God-given name.”
My deadname. They had sued my deadname in a sympathetic county court where the judge probably attended their Sunday services.
“I haven’t used that name in five years,” I said, my knuckles turning white around the steering wheel. “I didn’t receive any court summons.”
“We published the notice in the Oakhaven Gazette, exactly as the law requires when a defendant’s physical whereabouts are unknown,” Diane replied smoothly. “When you didn’t appear in court, the judge granted a default judgment. We saw you begging for money online, boasting about your new lifestyle. We knew exactly when those funds were hitting your bank. We are only taking what is spiritually owed to the church.”
“It’s three thousand dollars! That’s a medical emergency fund!”
“It’s a down payment on your soul,” she corrected gently. “Come home, let us help you find your true self again, and we will forgive the rest of the debt. I can release the freeze on your account the moment you walk through our doors.”
I ended the call, throwing the phone onto the passenger seat. The sheer audacity of the theft left me gasping for air in the suffocating heat of the car. My insulin pump vibrated against my hip. *One unit remaining.*
I needed help. I snatched the phone back up and dialed the non-emergency police line. When the desk sergeant answered, I frantically explained that a religious cult had fraudulently seized my bank account. The sergeant was polite, but his tone shifted the moment I mentioned the word ‘levy.’
“Sir, if there’s a court order attached to the bank freeze, it’s a civil matter,” the officer explained, sighing into the receiver. “We can’t investigate a valid court judgment as a theft. You need to file a motion to vacate with the civil court clerk in Oakhaven County.”
“I don’t have time to file a motion! I don’t have money for a lawyer! I need my insulin in the next three hours or I’m going to end up in the emergency room.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot intervene in civil asset seizures. Call Legal Aid.” The line clicked dead.
Complete isolation washed over me. The legal system wasn’t going to save me; it was the very weapon Diane had used to empty my account. I opened my wallet, desperately tearing through the compartments. I found three crumpled one-dollar bills, a quarter, and a dead gift card to a coffee shop. My checking account was hundreds of dollars in the negative. My credit card had been maxed out months ago covering endocrinologist appointments and test strips.
I looked back at the pharmacy doors. I had to try. I climbed out of the sweltering car and marched back inside, bypassing the long checkout line entirely. I walked straight to the consultation window. The pharmacist, an older man with tired eyes, looked up from his computer.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice trembling. “My insulin is on the hold shelf. Novolog. I’ve been robbed. My bank account was completely frozen today. I have zero dollars. Is there any way-can you give me an emergency supply? A sample vial? Even just a partial fill?”
The pharmacist’s face softened with pity, but he slowly shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I legally can’t dispense a prescription without payment, and we don’t carry manufacturer samples here. The cash price for the vial is two hundred and ninety dollars.”
“I will literally die without it,” I whispered, the reality finally crushing down on my chest.
“You can go to the emergency room,” he suggested gently. “They have to stabilize you if you go into DKA. But I can’t give you unpaid inventory. The system won’t even let me override it.”
Go to the ER. Rack up a five-thousand-dollar medical bill that I could never pay, just to survive the weekend, only to face the exact same problem on Monday. And Ascension Collections would likely try to garnish any future wages to pay off whatever imaginary spiritual debt remained.
Suddenly, a sharp, continuous alarm pierced the quiet of the pharmacy aisle. *Beep. Beep. Beep.*
I looked down at my hip. The screen on my insulin pump flashed bright yellow.
*Reservoir Empty. Delivery Stopped.*
My mouth was already starting to feel dry. The countdown hadn’t just started; I was officially running on borrowed time. My body had perhaps two hours before my blood sugar would begin its aggressive, toxic climb.
My phone buzzed in my hand. It was an email notification. The sender was ‘Ascension Restorative Counseling’.
I opened the message with a shaking thumb. There was no text in the body of the email, only a secure link to a DocuSign file titled *Levy Release and Settlement Agreement*.
I clicked the link. The legal document loaded on my cracked screen. It stated that Ascension Collections LLC would immediately file a release of the bank levy, unfreezing my three thousand dollars within minutes, provided I signed the digital contract.
I scrolled down to the terms. I had to agree to voluntarily commit myself to the Ascension Restorative Retreat Center for a ninety-day intensive residential program.
And at the very bottom, waiting for a digital signature, the line didn’t say Caleb. It required me to type out my deadname, legally acknowledging that Caleb did not exist.
Sign away my identity, and survive. Or keep my name, and let my blood turn to poison.