4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars
Dawn light seeps through the curtains. Jamie's side of the bed lies empty. And Luke opens the banking app, knowing exactly what the numbers will tell him. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Years of careful saving. The emergency fund built together, dollar by dollar. All of it about to be converted into concrete mix and camping supplies, withdrawn in careful chunks to avoid suspicion. Building a world costs everything. The spreadsheet doesn't lie—it just sits there, reminding him.
The morning arrives whether Luke is ready for it or not.
He lies still in the grey light, cataloguing the weight that presses against his chest before his feet even touch the floor. Jamie and Paul trapped in Clivilius. Gladys drawn too deep into the secret. A truck full of supplies sitting in the driveway. And beneath everything, the cold mathematics of survival demanding attention.
Last night, he opened a spreadsheet. Listed. Counted. Tracked. The figures glared back without mercy.
Twenty-five thousand dollars. Combined savings. Years of modest living and careful planning. The buffer that once stood between them and chaos, about to be liquidated into cash—anonymous, untraceable, withdrawn in amounts small enough not to trigger questions.
The banks will notice patterns. The banks will ask questions. Every transfer leaves a trail, every withdrawal a footprint in increasingly fragile ground. Yet there is no choice. Clivilius demands more than intention; it demands sacrifice.
Luke dresses in the mirror's tired reflection. The man staring back looks like someone carrying too much. Someone pretending control where there is only precariousness.
You can do this. You have to do this.
The day is waiting. It will not wait long.
