Part 1His White Moonlight Tax

To save my boyfriend, the man with the failing heart, I worked myself to the point of collapse.

I juggled multiple jobs, scrimping and saving every penny for his treatment. I was so broke I couldn't even afford medicine when I got sick myself.

So when I heard about the "Gold Dust Challenge"—a publicity stunt where you could literally scramble for gold flakes on the ground—I signed up without a second thought.

I was on my hands and knees, scrambling through dirt and gravel like a feral dog, desperate to find enough "gold dust" to exchange for cash. For his life.

I was led inside to a back office to cash in my findings. And through the thin wall, I heard his voice.

A reporter was interviewing him. "Mr. Schwimmer, you spent over three million dollars on this event, all to bring a smile to Miss Isabelle Vance's face. Your devotion is truly something to be admired."

A familiar, chillingly casual voice replied. "It's nothing. If it makes Isabelle happy, then letting these desperate people grovel for it is the most value they'll ever provide."

I clutched the three thousand dollars I had just earned, the irony a bitter pill in my throat.

...

My boyfriend, Patrick Schwimmer, was a poor kid with a congenital heart defect who couldn't rub two pennies together. That's what he'd told me.

So my first reaction was denial. It couldn't be him. The man who couldn't afford a thirty-dollar co-pay couldn't possibly be the one who just dropped three million on a party. Besides, my Patrick was in the hospital right now, his heart too weak to leave his bed. It had to be a coincidence. Someone who sounded like him, who also happened to be named Schwimmer.

But the next sound shattered that fragile hope. A woman's delicate laughter, a sound I recognized with a sickening jolt.

"Oh, Patrick," Isabelle Vance cooed, "they look just like little puppies, don't they? It's hysterical! Especially that one who looks a bit like your girlfriend, Leah. Look at how hard she's trying. She must be desperate for the money."

I heard a sharp intake of breath. On the other side of the wall, Patrick's eyes were glued to the monitor displaying the live feed of the event.

He quickly typed something on his phone.

A second later, my own phone buzzed.

[Baby, where are you? Don't push yourself too hard. Rest if you're tired.]

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. My hand trembled so badly I could barely hold the phone.

[Don't worry, I'm resting now. I found a great gig today, made a full three thousand!]

He sent back a kissing emoji.

[That's my girl. Another few days of hospital bills covered.]

How utterly laughable.

A grotesque smile stretched my lips, but tears streamed down my face like pearls from a broken string.

Convinced the pathetic creature on the screen wasn't me, Patrick relaxed.

He chuckled.

"On all fours like that," he said to Isabelle. "They really do look like dogs begging their master for a bone."

The room erupted in laughter.

"Look at the way she's sticking her butt in the air! It's like she's wagging her tail!"

"People like that would do anything for money. I bet if you told her to lick your shoes, she'd do it without a second thought."

"Mr. Schwimmer's shoes are custom-made, worth millions! Letting trash like her lick them would be an honor!"

On my side of the wall, I stared down at my own worn-out sneakers, my big toe poking through a hole. In that moment, my dignity shattered into a million pieces.