Chapter 7
On Byron’s first day as a pharmaceutical rep, someone recognized him.
“Isn’t that the scammer?!”
“Kill him!”
“Give us back our life–saving money!”
A few relatives of patients charged at him, fists flying.
He didn’t even try to dodge.
*Bang!* The last kick landed squarely on his ribs.
He struggled to rise, wiping the blood from his mouth, then continued delivering
1/9
samples.
“Get out of here!”
“The hospital doesn’t want you!”
“I’m reporting you!”
By the end of the day, he’d sold only two boxes of medicine.
Barely enough for tomorrow’s nutrients.
That night, he lay on the floor of his rented room. Below, he could hear the sound of someone pounding on the door.
“Byron! When will you pay back the loan?”
“If you don’t pay, we’ll break your legs!”
His phone rang.
2/9
“Mr. Roffe, you only have 276 left on your card.”
“The ICU bed fee is due today.”
“Sorry, the hospital does not offer credit extensions.”
He touched the two boxes of returned medication in his pocket.
*Bang!* The door downstairs was kicked open.
He climbed out the window and disappeared into the tempest of the night again.
The next day, Cleveland Medical Center sent word.
He was now working as a janitor in the
3/9
morgue, earning a salary of $2,800 a month.
He kept his head down whenever anyone passed by.
The scent of formaldehyde churned in his stomach, threatening to make him sick.
But no one ever told him to leave again.
Until one day, my attending physician called him into the office:
“Her latest EEG shows some fluctuations.”
He lifted his head, a spark of hope in his eyes.
“There’s a new treatment abroad with an 80% recovery rate.” The doctor handed him some information.
4/9
He stared at the numbers, his eyes fixed on the total: 9.8 million.
“I can voluntarily donate a kidney…”
“Not enough.” The doctor cut him off.
“I’ll sell my blood…”
“Get a grip!”
He bolted from the hospital, kneeling in front of the creditor he had once hated the most:
“Please, lend me the money.”
The man smiled. “It’s not impossible…”
The next day, he vanished.
The security guard claimed to have seen him crawl into a van.
5/9
Three days later, the news broke:
“Underground organ trafficking ring busted!”
“Former business tycoon Byron involved!”
“Voluntary surrender!”
The police report read:
Suspect Byron, age 42.
Involved in illegal organ trade.
Currently under criminal detention.
During the interrogation, he said only one thing:
“The money’s in XXX bank, account number XXXX.”
6/9
“Transfer it all to Diana.”
In the ICU, Judith slammed her water cup down in frustration:
“This lunatic!”
The attending physician stared at the wire transfer slip in silence:
“9.68 million…”
“Probably sold himself.”
That same day, the court issued its verdict:
Illegal organ trafficking.
Reduced sentence for cooperation.
Sentenced to three years in prison.
7/9
But in the detention center, he smiled:
“Three years…”
“Diana, wait for me.”
A security guard slipped him a note:
“Ms. Cohen moved her finger yesterday!”
He clutched the note, crying like a child.
Some say Byron went mad.
For a woman who hated him.
For someone who would never forgive him.
But he knew, this was what he owed Diana.
It was the only worth his life had left.
8/9
