The Decimal Point That Ruined Her
Language: en
When I opened my eyes again, the world was no longer white, sterile, and smelling of industrial bleach. I was back in my first year of grad school. In the dim light of the stairwell, Beth was hunched over, her eyes rimmed with red, her knuckles white as she gripped a tuition past-due notice. In my first life, I had found her here, sobbing because she couldn’t afford the semester. I had handed over five thousand dollars—every cent I’d clawed together from late-night tutoring and skipping meals. She had clung to me then, her voice thick with tears, swearing I was the most important person in…