Chapter 2

The day Frank's son, Greg Carter, came home, a small earthquake hit the house.

Greg worked in the city and only made it home a few times a year. This time he had come back for some money to fix up the house he and his fiancée would live in once they married.

At dinner, Gloria slapped her chopsticks down and said, stone-faced, "There's no money."

"Mom, I send home two thousand dollars of my pay every month. That's got to be at least fifty or sixty thousand over the last few years, right? I'm only asking for thirty thousand for the renovation. How can there be no money?" Greg asked, keeping his temper in check.

"It's spent!" Gloria shot back, without a shred of shame. "You think feeding and keeping this whole family is free? Your dad with that body of his, his back or his legs aching every other day. You think his medicine is free? And this house doesn't need repairs?"

Frank sat in the corner. He had barely opened his mouth when Gloria shot him a glare, and he closed it again.

The truth was, Frank had never taken any medicine. His back ached from hard work, and a couple of pain patches got him through it. As for the house, apart from Gloria's bedroom, which had air conditioning and new flooring, every other room looked exactly as it had twenty years ago.

"Mom, don't think I don't know." Greg shot to his feet, his face flushed red. "Last month, for Old Man Hoffman's birthday, you gave him a big gold ring. That was my hard-earned money!"

Smack!

Gloria jumped up and slapped her son across the face. "You ungrateful brat! How dare you talk like that? Do you know how much your Uncle Dale has helped this family? Without him, this house would've fallen down long ago! What good is that useless father of yours? If I don't rely on your Uncle Dale, who am I supposed to rely on?"

"You..." Greg was shaking with rage. He turned to Frank. "Dad! You're just going to sit there and watch? The whole town talks about our family behind our backs. Can't you hear them? Old Man Hoffman is practically taking a dump on your head!"

Frank set down his bowl. It was the only thing he had done the whole meal.

He rose slowly, walked over to his son, and pressed a hand on Greg's shoulder. The hand was rough and strong, like an iron clamp.

"Greggy, sit down." Frank's voice was low, but unusually steady.

"Dad! I can't take it anymore!" Greg shouted.

"Even if you can't take it, you have to." Frank looked his son in the eye. There was a depth in that gaze Greg had never seen before, like an old well with no bottom. "The renovation money, I'll scrape it together for you in a couple of days. Eat."

Gloria gave a cold snort. "You'll scrape it together? What, are you going to sell your blood? Quit pretending you're some big shot."

With that, she swayed her hips back to the inner room. Less than five minutes later, Old Man Hoffman from next door came strolling into the yard, humming a tune, and slipped straight into Gloria's room.

Greg hurled his bowl to the floor. Shards flew everywhere.

Frank silently crouched down and picked up the broken china, one piece at a time. A shard sliced his finger, and a bead of blood welled up. He looked at the blood on his fingertip, and the corner of his mouth suddenly twitched into a smile that didn't fit him at all, a cold and sinister smile.