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They don’t make those anymore.

Dimes then? Good old Benjamin Franklin?

It’s a hell of a lot!

So why are you so nervous?

I whip around, hand clamped over my mouth as nausea inches up my throat. No, I’m not puking! I refuse to let nerves steal the spotlight away from my freedom.

You are a strong, independent woman. Now say that three times and believe it.

I did. But whenever I faced Frank and my mom, I shrank back into that desperate, scared little girl. Just being in this house fucked with me, with my head.

Sure, I had hacked millions before, but never from these people.

If you steal from God, chances are he will forgive you. But what if you steal from the devil?

I didn’t want to hang around to find out.

I like my skin attached to my body, thank you very much. I like having all my fingers and toes.

Soap&Skin’s ‘Me and the Devil’ blares out. That’s no accident. Hackers don’t leave things to chance—not code, not playlists. I curate every track for every hack. Knowing what song comes next gives me control, a feeling of safety I never had as a kid.

Fucking fairy tales, glass slippers and fairy godmothers! Then again, it was never the mother that saved you; it was the prince.

With no prince in sight, I have to save myself. It’s always been this way; always will be.

Yes, I am capable, but dammit! Just once I want to be saved by someone else. It’s exhausting being your own hero, cheerleader, voice of wisdom, and whisperer of bad decisions.

Growing up, I never knew what was coming next. What man my mom would find, then what hacking job I would be forced to commit.

Now I’m free. It’s not exhilarating—it’s terrifying. I might just develop IBS. Welcome to adulthood: surprise; you might shit yourself!

My gaze moves across my stepdad’s office. It’s plain with cheap IKEA furniture, even though he makes enough to upgrade to Rooms To Go. His illegal offshore accounts could buy custom woodwork. “Sorry you had to endure an asshole like him,” I mutter to the fake wood. It’s all leaning slightly; nothing is centered or sturdy.

I sing the lyrics out loud. The devil didn’t just knock on my door—he’s been pounding for years. I was the idiot who kept pretending not to hear. I sang fa, la, la, la, la, hoping Santa would bring me a toy, but I should have traded sides years ago. The devil always has the best gifts; that’s how he lures you in.

I watch as the last dollars bounce from one offshore account to another. Now it’s time to input the BANKS Corp routing number. Perfect; every line is correct.

“Time for the final act.” I exhale and lift my hand toward the keyboard. I needed to send BANKS Corp the digital trail. Yes; I was sending them details of everything Frank stole from them, how I hacked the hacker, and returned their money.

My body was in self-destruct mode. My heart pounded in my ears; move over Hans Zimmer, my pulse might outplay your scores. My stomach was a factor, too. Why was it in my throat?

Was it better that it got stuck in my throat instead of coming out of my ass? Safe from IBS… for now.

This is freedom, folks. Still want it? Better stock up on antacids.

I stare at the screen. Don’t do it.

What do you mean don’t do it?! It’s either you cross Frank, or the founding families. Do you want to keep letting Frank slap you around? You have to step away from this abusive family.

It’s hard. Why is leaving abuse scarier than enduring it?

You let yourself get familiar with it, and friends—even bad ones—are hard to say goodbye to. They wrap you in a security blanket. Good friends keep you afloat. Bad ones trap you in the water. They let the waves, the slapping of their hands, oppress you. They give you a moment of sun, then drag you an inch deeper. You don’t have to be a trapped fish in a net. I know leaving them means braving the big, scary ocean alone, but trust me, it’s got to be better than suffocating in their net. I’d rather be eaten by a shark than slowly devoured by my abuser for dinner.

Leave this family. Do it! Do it now! Frank is going to hunt you down, and so will they. Might as well fuck Frank up in the process.

Plastic smacks against my fingers—cheap, flimsy plastic. Amazing how much damage a tiny key can do. It should be metal for the occasion. My finger chomps across the keyboard like Pac-Man. One key left. One press to blow it all up, in the best way.