Clear Water

It looked so innocent on the surface—clean signs, smiling staff, clipboards full of instructions. BizTown, they called it. A cheerful place where children pretended to run businesses, balance checkbooks, and “learn about the economy.” They even had a bank that gave them fake loans to start.

But I swear to you, something foul was running beneath that surface. And it wasn’t just the debt.

The trouble began when my son came home after the first day. “We took out a loan!” he said proudly, waving a play money ledger. “We’re opening a water business. Selling bottles to other kids. It’s called Clear Water.”

I smiled—at first. “How much did you borrow?”

“$75,” he grinned. “We only made $20 today, but it’s okay. The loan helps us grow!”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something about the way he said it—it wasn’t a game to him. He spoke like the debt was a living thing, something he owed not just money to, but respect. Obedience.

By the third day, their water business was in trouble. Not enough sales. Too many expenses. They had to cut team pay. My son said one of the kids refused and walked away. The next day, that kid’s name wasn’t on any attendance list. No one remembered him. Not even the staff.

“But you played with him yesterday,” I told my son.

He frowned. “I think I dreamed him.”

No. I remembered the boy too.

It got worse. The ledger began changing on its own. My son said the numbers wouldn't stop moving. Sometimes the loan balance increased even when they made payments. A shadow would flicker behind the teller window at the bank kiosk. My son stopped drinking water. When I handed him a bottle from the fridge, he flinched.

“They said we can only drink what we sell,” he whispered.

“Who said that?”

He didn’t answer.

That evening, I returned to BizTown after hours, hoping to speak with the director. The front doors were open. Inside, everything was silent—but the lights were still on. The model bank glowed with eerie green light. I heard water dripping. But the sinks were dry.

In the “Clear Water” stall, I found the ledger. It was damp.

I opened it. Pages were warped and covered in handwriting—words that weren’t there before. Latin phrases. Dates from decades ago. Kid names scratched out with red pen. The last page was fresh and clean, but one line was scrawled across the bottom in thick black ink:

"The debt always collects."

When I looked up, the shelves were filled with water bottles that hadn’t been there seconds before. Full, clear, and cold. But they were labeled with names. Not brands. Names.

I found my son’s name on one. And it was half empty.

The next day, all the kids smiled like nothing happened. No one remembered the missing student. The staff laughed off any mention of "odd events." My son came home like everything was fine.

But that night, he sleepwalked to the kitchen. He opened the tap and just stared. When I tried to pull him away, he turned slowly.

“They said I still owe.”

“Owe what?” I asked.

“Water,” he said flatly. “Time. Breath.”

He didn’t remember it the next morning.

I pulled him from the program. The school said I overreacted. That BizTown was safe and approved by educators. That no harm had ever come from learning how the economy works.

But I know what I saw. I know what he said.

And I kept the bottle.

It’s in the freezer now. It still has his name on it. And I swear… the water level is lower every day.