Chapter 1

Because I was such a master of slacking off, my parents sent me to a reality show that was supposed to turn me into a perfect child.

On the show, it took me half an hour just to stand up with both hands on the bed rail.

I liked dragging my legs when I walked, and I could take an entire day to finish one meal.

To make sure I went through the makeover smoothly, they threw away my cane and hid my medicine.

The production team locked me in a reflection pod and forced me to write a confession letter in front of the camera.

I held the pen and begged myself in my heart:

I have to write this well. As long as I do, Mom and Dad will take me home.

They promised they would take me for a follow-up visit when I got back this time.

But my hand kept shaking, and the saliva in my throat surged up and blocked my airway.

I lay on the floor, banging my forehead against the door again and again, trying to get help.

But my dad just sneered, “You’re an adult now. Why are you still using this excuse to be lazy?”

My mom also showed an ugly look.

“Stop pretending. Isn’t this just your way of slacking off? Why are you acting so disgusting?”

I lay on the floor, banging my forehead against the door again and again, trying to get help.

Dad.

Mom.

I really wasn’t being lazy. I was sick.

“Zoe, how long do you plan to keep pretending?”

My dad’s angry voice came from the control room.

I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t get out a single complete sentence.

I knelt trembling in front of the table, my right hand seeming frozen solid, unable to move.

My fingertips felt as if they had been twisted into a strange shape, and the confession letter I had written for my parents slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

I tried to grab it, but all I could do was watch the paper land on the ground.

There were only a few crooked words on it, barely recognizable:

I’m not...

I could never finish the word “lazy” after that.

“I’ve seen too many people like this who are too lazy to write, so they start pretending their hands don’t work. They need to be punished.”

In the control room, the producer, Megan, was practically smug.

“Move camera one closer so everyone can see what she looks like when she refuses to admit fault and keeps pretending to be sick.”

Tears streamed down my face as I tried to explain.

I wanted to tell them I wasn’t faking it, that I really couldn’t hold the pen.

But all that came out of my mouth was a broken, breathless sound.

“Dad... I... help...”

Outside the video frame, my mom, Sandra, frowned in disgust.

“She’s at it again. The second we ask her to do anything, she starts acting up, saying she can’t breathe. Isn’t this obviously just her pretending to be sick? Don’t let her fool you!”

My dad, David, also stood up in anger.

“You’re an adult and still this lazy? Who are you trying to fool by not saying anything now? You sure had plenty of energy when you were stressing us out at home. Go outside and say you’re my kid? That’s embarrassing.”

I wanted to explain that it wasn’t like that. I had tried.

But I just couldn’t do it right.

And nobody cared what I thought.

The livestream was still on.

A row of bullet comments scrolled past the side of the screen.

[This slow, dragging act is making me furious.]

[She came here for a makeover and still keeps pretending to be sick. The way her hand shakes is disgusting.]

[Her family has such good tempers. If it were me, I’d have slapped her already.]

[Don’t go soft on her, production. Stay strong.]

I lay on the floor and felt my breathing get harder and harder.

I wanted to call for help, but when I opened my mouth, I could only make a few weak sounds.

When I lifted my head, I saw the slogan the production team had printed in advance on the wall:

Laziness isn’t an illness. Refusing to change is deadly.

Then I suddenly remembered that before I went into the reflection pod, someone told me there was a help button on the wall.

“If you really can’t hold on, just press it.”

I used all my strength to reach out and press it.

But no matter how many times I pressed, the red light never came on.

Only later did I find out that to make the “sealed reflection” feel more real, Megan had someone cut the call line inside long before.

So I had no choice but to crawl toward the door.

The saliva in my mouth kept building up. I couldn’t swallow it, and I couldn’t cough it out.

I could feel it slowly running into my airway.

My chest felt like it was being clenched by a hand.

I hit the door with my forehead.

Once.

Twice.

Outside the door, a crew member named Dylan stopped walking.

Through the door, he asked, “Zoe? Are you okay?”

I opened my mouth and tried desperately to breathe in.

“Help... help me...”

But the sound that came out was broken.

Dylan clearly panicked and took out his walkie-talkie.

“Director Megan, she doesn’t look right. Should we open the door and check on her first?”

The control room fell silent for two seconds.

Then Megan laughed.

“Don’t let her set the pace. Wasn’t she lying on the floor two days ago saying her legs wouldn’t move? In the end, didn’t her dad just drag her up?”

My dad snorted in the control room.

“She’s just asking for a beating. When she was little, if I hit her twice, she’d run faster than a rabbit. Now that she’s grown up, she knows we won’t dare beat her to death, so she’s acting even more convincingly.”

My mom added:

“Let her stay on the floor. The ground is cold. Once she’s cold enough, she’ll know to get up.”

Dylan still wanted to argue.

“But this time she really...”

Megan cut him off.

“Do you know how many people are in the livestream room right now? Nine-point-two million.”

“The viewers want to see her finally break down and admit she was wrong. If you open that door now, who’s going to stay and watch our livestream?”

“Anyone who dares open that door now can pack their things and get out.”

Dylan didn’t dare say another word.

Footsteps outside drifted away.

I lay by the door and suddenly heard a terrifying wheezing sound from my own chest.

It sounded like a broken bellows.

I thought of three months ago, when Dr. Grant looked at my test results with a grave expression and said to me:

“Zoe, you can’t keep delaying this. Your swallowing and breathing are already being affected. It’s best not to leave you alone. If you start choking or can’t breathe, you need to go to the ER immediately.”

That day, I carefully put my medical report into my bag.

When I got home, my mom only glanced at the bill before tossing the file onto the table.

“One exam costs more than a thousand dollars. Of course the doctor’s going to make it sound serious. If he doesn’t scare you, how’s he supposed to make money?”

My dad was even more direct.

“Don’t try to scare us with some illness. I think you’re just too lazy to work and want us to support you for the rest of your life.”

In the final moment before I suffocated, my body suddenly became very light.

I floated up from the ground.

When I looked down, I saw myself curled up beside the reflection pod door, my face pale and bluish, saliva all over my mouth and chin.

My hand was still reaching through the crack in the door, as if I were trying to grab the person outside.

But there was no one outside.

In the control room, my dad was pointing at the monitor and shouting:

“Look at her. She even knows how to make the posture look this miserable. Just so she won’t write the confession letter, she’s even putting on a death act.”

My mom turned her face away in disgust.

“So disgusting. Don’t give her a close-up. She makes me sick.”

I stood behind them and finally understood.

So even after you die, you still might not get a single word of belief.