When Desperation Calls

Anna never really asked for much. She was never one for expensive tech or ostentatious clothing. She’d run her laptop into the ground until it would barely turn on and she never spent more than $20 on a single article of clothing. So why was she suddenly struggling so much?

It could’ve been the move to Minneapolis, Minnesota, from her small hometown two hours south, where the cost of living was half price and everyone knew her name. It could’ve been the downfall of earning a communication degree instead of studying pharmacy like her parents planned. After all, what did her degree get her? A job waitressing in a city where the definition of a cheap apartment was clearly subjective.

No, Anna never asked for much, and now all she asked for was some good old-fashioned financial stability. Was being able to afford a place to live and food to eat really that outrageous?

In the midst of applying for more jobs she was overqualified for but would ultimately never hear back from, Anna pulled out the little black Moleskin notebook her mother gave her for her birthday. “Use it for something important,” her mother said. Well, financial planning seemed pretty important. Anna found a stray pen in her desk and started adding, subtracting, estimating… and ended with nothing but frustration. How was she still surviving with only $50 allotted for groceries every week and less than $100 left at the end of the month, if she was lucky?

What started as financial planning quickly morphed into financial venting. Certain groceries were crossed off, curse words were sprawled in the margins, and questions like “how much could I sell a kidney for?” were only half sarcastic. But that anger dissipated into desperation, leading to new notes like “how many months can I survive without heat or water?” and “find a nearby plasma center for extra cash.”

Despite all of her stressors being crammed into one little book, Anna started carrying it with her everywhere. It served as a constant reminder to flirt a little harder with grown men at work and think twice about getting fruit instead of ramen. She’d jot down notes about her shifts; which shifts brought in the most cash, who left the best tips, which sections to ask for. If she batted her eyes at the kitchen crew enough, they’d package up some food for her to take home after her shift; she wrote down how much she saved from eating bar leftovers instead of home cooking.

But even when she saw more money in her account, all she did was send it straight to bills and student loans. She was picking up extra shifts and giving plasma twice a week, running her body into the ground, but she was making ends meet.

Until she lost the book.

She had treated herself to her one cafe-made coffee per month and just as she got home to deduct five dollars from her budget, she realized the familiar weight of the book in her purse was gone. She called the cafe, but there was no sign of the book. Nothing at work, nothing in the hall, and after tearing her little studio apartment apart, she was still coming up empty-handed. With a heavy sigh, she fished for another spare notebook she had yet to fill -- this one purple -- and wrote down the notes she could remember.

Halfway across town, Ryan Murray sat in his office flipping through the little black book he found on his way to lunch. The owner of the book -- a woman, from what he gathered -- was clearly doing her best to save money while still paying all of her bills, especially the hundreds per month on student loan payments.

“Are they really charging that type of interest now?” Ryan scoffed to himself.

He could practically feel the writer’s frustration pouring out of the book. Expletives littered the edges of the paper, alongside every phrase his grandma told him to never repeat. Despite where he currently sat, Ryan had been there. He knew what it was like to struggle, but he didn’t get out of there without cracking a few skulls -- literally. Not that the police would ever be able to prove it. But they could try.

The more Ryan flipped the pages, the more pity he felt for this person. Cutting out certain foods for more ramen? Flirting with men her father’s age just for more tips? All so she could barely scrape by.

Ryan went back to the inside cover, hoping the owner left some sort of identifying information. He found the jackpot. Next to a hand-written note signed “Love, mom,” sat a name, phone number, and email address.

That was more than enough.

Ryan grabbed his second cell and dialed his assistant (of sorts) with a simple task.

“I need you to find Anna O’Brien.”

Even with just a name, number, and email, he knew he’d find Anna.

Four days later, Anna finally took a day off. She had been working every single day for 16 days straight, picking up doubles to save a little extra. But she knew if she wanted to stay sane, she needed to take at least one full day for herself. Then she’d be back on her feet in the weeds. She let herself sleep in an extra hour, cooked herself a hearty breakfast, and made herself a mimosa with the three dollar champagne she found before settling in on the couch to watch one of her favorite movies. Before she could get too comfy, there was a knock on her door. She hadn’t invited anyone over, nor had she ordered any food, so she set her trusty baseball bat behind the door as she opened it to greet her visitor.

“Anna O’Brien?” the young man asked. He didn’t look like a delivery man, judging by his casual get-up, but the small box in his hands said otherwise.

“Uh, yeah?” she said, nearly as a question.

“Special delivery.” The man shoved the box into her arms and retreated down the hall without another word.

“Hey, wait! I didn’t order anything!” she called after him. He ignored her and disappeared into the stairwell. “What the hell?” Anna muttered to herself.

The box was relatively heavy, but she knew she hadn’t ordered anything so she was baffled as to what it could possibly be. Maybe a bomb? She’d seen enough crime shows to know it was a possibility, especially considering how quickly the delivery man left. The box wasn’t very big, maybe one foot each way, but she figured bombs didn’t have to be too big to do damage. Despite her fears, Anna took a deep breath and did what every victim on her favorite crime shows does: she cut the tape and opened the box.

But there was no bomb inside.

Instead, she found her old black book full of her financial notes, along with a note on top.

Anna,

I found your journal outside that cafe on Roosevelt. Judging by the contents, I imagine you want it back. I hope you don’t mind that I snooped a bit. And let me just say, I’ve been there.

I had my team do some digging to find a way to get this back to you, but I wanted to leave further contact up to you. I saw someone in need of something I have plenty of, but didn’t want to push too many boundaries, considering what you’re about to find.

Enclosed in this box, you’ll find $20,000 in valid US currency. Use it to pay some bills, get some groceries, maybe knock down some of those pesky student loans.

And if you ever need anything, give me a call.

Ryan.”

“What the…?” she mumbled under her breath. She set the note down and glanced back into the box nervously, as if something was going to jump out at her. It looked like all that was left was a layer of tissue paper, but after reading the note, she was almost scared to peek underneath.

With a quick swig of her mimosa for some false confidence, Anna took a deep breath and lifted the paper, choking on the scream bubbling in her throat.

Laid in two neat columns sat ten straps of $20 bills. Each one was bound with a purple strap signifying each bundle held two thousand dollars. Anna was no mathematician, but she knew ten bundles of two thousand meant she had…

That’s when the panic settled in. Should she call someone? The police? And say what, that some stranger sent her $20,000 and her lost journal? All they’d do is take the money and leave her with no answers to all of her questions. The note did have a phone number written at the bottom, but she knew it had to be a burner phone of some sort. There’s no way someone with an extra $20,000 in cash would leave a real phone number.

But that was the only chance she had at finding out what the hell was happening.

With shaky hands, she dialed the number and listened to the familiar ring, ring, ring…

“Anna,” a deep voice answered. “I see you got my gift.”

Anna gulped as the reality of the situation settled into her bones, keeping her rigid on her sofa. And despite all the questions running through her mind, only one made it to her lips.

“Who are you?”