Chapter 3 - The Anonymous Benefactor
The phone screen lit up with a blinding flash of golden animation as a digital banner crossed the live stream. Marcus whistled low, genuinely surprised for the first time since the broadcast began. The viewer count shattered the hundred-thousand mark, and the comment stream dissolved into a chaotic blur of digital waterfall emojis and frantic prayers.
“Well, look at that,” Marcus said, his eyes darting across the chat feed. “Someone calling themselves ‘GhostDonor’ just unlocked the fifty-thousand share milestone. Looks like your digital suffering bought you a ticket, old man.”
Clara groaned, her head slumping forward against her chest. “Dad... make him drive. It’s coming. I can feel it.”
Arthur scrambled to his feet, slamming his palm against the truck’s passenger door. “Open the door! The goal was met! You got what you wanted!”
Marcus unlocked the doors with a heavy mechanical thud. He didn't offer to help lift Clara, instead leaning across the center console to push the passenger seat back. “Get her in the back seat. Keep her head down. I don’t want blood on my upholstery.”
Arthur hauled Clara out of the folding chair, ignoring the stabbing pain in his own aging lower back as he half-carried, half-dragged her toward the red pickup. The wooden fence in the background seemed to blur as the adrenaline surged through his veins. He managed to bundle Clara into the extended cab, her breathing ragged and shallow against the vinyl seats.
Arthur slammed the door shut and yanked open the front passenger door, sliding in beside Marcus just as the truck lurched forward with a spray of gravel.
“Fasten your seatbelt,” Marcus commanded, his eyes fixed on the empty asphalt road that stretched ahead of them. “And don’t touch my dashboard phone. The stream has to stay live for verification purposes.”
Arthur looked back at Clara, who lay curled in the footwell, clutching her stomach in silent agony. “You’re a sick human being,” Arthur spat, staring straight ahead at the cracked windshield.
May you like
Marcus didn't flinch. He downshifted aggressively, pushing the truck past seventy miles per hour as they careened away from the field. “Maybe so,” Marcus replied, glancing at the relentless ticker of incoming donations. “But your daughter is still breathing, and my bank account is getting fatter by the second. Now shut up and watch the road.”
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