Million Dollar Dream
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The house was a two-story, white brick colonial with black shutters. The front lawn was well kept and the grass green, but the back yard looked like an overgrown jungle of weeds. It didn’t look safe to play in there at all.
As we walked up to the door, I saw that it had a big brass knocker on it shaped like a lion’s head, which struck me as funny since lions are considered fierce beasts by most people.
We rang the bell several times, then knocked again when no one answered right away. After waiting for a minute or so, we tried knocking some more while walking around to peer into windows. We couldn’t see anyone inside except a few shadows moving behind closed curtains.
Finally, after we’d gone through every window we could find, we decided we were wasting our time and headed down the street. But just before we reached the corner where we’d turned off onto the main road, we heard a voice call out from somewhere inside the house, “Hold your horses!”
It wasn’t loud enough for us to hear clearly, but it sounded like they might have said something about us being kids. When we paused to listen, someone else shouted, “They’re probably here for the dog.” And another person said, “That damn mutt’s been barking nonstop ever since he got loose last night.”
I was thinking this was really weird because none of these people seemed to know who we were even though they’d seen us coming up their driveway. They weren’t saying anything mean about us, either. It almost sounded like they were trying to help us. If only we knew what kind of trouble we were in now!
When we stopped still, the dogs started barking louder than ever. I thought maybe they wouldn’t let us leave without them, but my sister said she didn’t think so. She also said, “Maybe we should go check things out anyway,” and I agreed.
So, we circled around the side of the house to try peeking in the second set of windows, but nobody was home at any of those places, either. This made me feel better because I figured it meant they hadn’t noticed we’d been looking in their windows yet.
While we waited for everyone to get back from wherever they’d gone, we checked the mailbox. There was nothing in it besides junk mail and bills. A couple of houses down, we found a phone booth that had a payphone inside it, so we went inside and called the police.
Before I hung up, though, I remembered how long it took the operator to answer when we used the landline, so we decided not to use it anymore. Instead, we crossed the street to wait for the patrol car that would come along eventually.
As we sat there on the sidewalk, a little girl came running past us. Her hair was cut short in a boyish style, but her clothes were way too tight—like she’d borrowed her mother’s clothes and never asked permission to wear them.
While she ran across the street, she dropped her bag of toys on the ground, causing a bunch of stuffed animals to tumble out. Most of the other children playing nearby scattered to avoid stepping on them, but one little guy grabbed his ball instead and chased the girl, yelling, “Hey, you lost your stuff? You want me to take care of it for ya?”
He threw his ball straight at the girl’s feet, hitting her directly in the shins, sending her tumbling backward and landing hard on her bottom.
Everyone laughed, but the girl cried harder. I wanted to run over and comfort her, but I felt too nervous to move. The little boy ran away laughing while she stood up and picked up her bag, shaking her leg and crying even harder. Then, the same little kid who’d thrown the ball charged toward the girl and punched her square in the face, making her fall flat on her stomach.
She lay there, holding her hands to her cheek and sobbing until I finally moved. I rushed forward and picked up the little boy’s baseball and held it out to him. He smiled and snatched it up. Then, he tossed the ball high overhead and yelled, “You missed!”
He jumped up and ran off, leaving me alone with the little girl. At least I hoped that was still her name.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
But she just stared blankly ahead at the sky, so I put my arm around her shoulders and helped her stand up. Once she was standing, we both looked around and saw a woman and an older man walking toward us.
The woman was tall and pretty, with curly blonde hair, but the old guy looked grumpy. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks sagged as if all the skin had peeled away. But when the man looked at the girl and me, his eyes lit up bright blue, and he pointed at her. “There goes Trouble! That’s our little girl,” he said, smiling big. “My wife calls her ‘Trouble,’ too.”
We nodded at each other, but neither of us said anything right then. We watched the three adults walk by and head toward the front porch of a small house where they disappeared through a screen door. After a minute or two, a gray sedan pulled into the driveway next to ours.
One of the men wearing a uniform climbed out and walked toward the house. As soon as he got close enough, he opened the screen door and stuck his hand inside, searching for whoever was hiding inside. When he turned around again, I could tell something was wrong because he had tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried wiping them off on his jacket sleeve, but it didn’t do much good.
After another moment or two, a black van pulled into the driveway behind the sedan. Another officer got out of it and walked toward us.
At last, after watching this whole thing for ten minutes or more, we realized we needed to call the cops ourselves. I dialed 911, but no sooner did I start talking to the operator than my phone died.
I wasn’t going to leave without trying to help, but the officer made it clear we should stay hidden. So I told the others what happened, and we decided to wait here on the sidewalk until the cops arrived.
When the officers finally showed up, they came in a pair: Two young men in suits, which meant they were probably detectives. They flashed badges, introduced themselves, and started asking questions.
The kids answered truthfully about everything except their names, ages, and addresses since we weren’t supposed to give those kinds of details to anyone unless we absolutely had to. And while the cops listened intently, none of us gave any answers that might lead them to think we knew more than we actually did.
While the police questioned us, the other kids went home. Only the five of us remained, and we stayed together, sitting on the sidewalk like we were waiting for a ride. It took nearly twenty minutes before the officers finished their conversation and headed back to their cruiser.
All the while, we kept quiet. If we talked to each other, maybe someone would remember we’d seen the attack. But when the patrol car drove past us and left the scene, the only sound we heard from its tires was the squeal of rubber on concrete.
Then, after a few seconds passed, one of the officers called to us from the street. “Hey! Are you guys okay? Do you need a ride somewhere?”
We all turned around and stood up, ready to get into the police car, but instead of opening the door, the officer stepped outside onto the curb and bent down to look at me directly.
“Can you repeat your name for me?”
“Uh… yes…” I replied.
“And can you spell that for me?”
I hesitated for a second. I thought it might be a trick, so I waited for a better chance to say the word, but eventually, I blurted it out loud. “S-s-s-s-t-a-l-m-i-e…”
His mouth dropped open. He let go of the wheel and leaned over the seat to point at me. “Do you know who that is?”
Before I could answer, another voice spoke up. A female voice. She sounded very familiar, almost like she was part of the family. “Yes, I’m sure. My daughter, Stacey. Her father used to play guitar professionally, and she grew up listening to him sing. Can you imagine how happy she must have been tonight when she found him playing near her school?”
Both policemen turned around, and now the woman was pointing at me. “That’s right! You’re the little girl who played ‘Heartbreaker’ by Fleetwood Mac!”
***
As soon as the woman identified herself, I felt the blood drain from my face. Everyone else seemed surprised, too. But I couldn’t believe it. There was no way she could possibly know me—or could she…?
She continued to stare at me, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking back, even though there was nothing to see but a passing streetlight shining brightly overhead. Then, just when I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, she smiled.
The first time I saw her smile, it made me want to melt away in a puddle on the ground. That beautiful, big grin was enough to make anybody forget her age and fall in love with her instantly. Even the cops looked shocked.
“My god,” said the older man. “Is that really her?”
The younger cop nodded. “It is.”
I still didn’t understand why she recognized me. Maybe it was because she worked at the same store where I used to buy my toys. Or maybe she recognized me from someplace else entirely. Either way, the way she looked at me sent a chill straight through my body.
“How old are you, honey?” asked the woman. “You’ve grown quite tall.”
Now I understood why everyone was staring at me. In addition to being recognizable, I also happened to be wearing the exact outfit I wore in the video. The bright yellow shirt. The purple pants. And the black boots. Not to mention the red scarf tied around my neck. It was all exactly the same.
But I couldn’t tell if the woman recognized me or not. When she answered, her voice was kind and gentle like she was talking to an adult. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t mean to embarrass you. Your mommy has told me all about you.”
There was something odd about her words, especially when paired with the way she stared at me. It wasn’t until later that I learned she had a condition known as prosopagnosia. An inability to recognize faces, meant she probably didn’t remember our last encounter.
Suddenly, my mother walked over. She stopped in front of the policeman, and then, without saying anything, she put both hands on his shoulders and pulled him close to her. His face softened, and he looked confused, but he didn’t resist. Without breaking eye contact with me, he whispered to my mother.
“What did they do to you?”
When I heard those words, I wanted to run to her, hug her tight, and never let go. But before I could move, she reached for my hand, grabbed it gently between hers, and pulled me closer. I could feel the warmth of her skin against mine, and it gave me strength.
After a moment, she opened her mouth to speak, and although her lips weren’t moving, I knew what she was going to say.
“They tried to kill us.”
From that day forward, we decided to leave New York City behind. We packed everything we owned into two suitcases, and once again, we left town. For months afterward, we stayed with different relatives and friends, and every morning, Mom would wake up early and walk out the door to find work while I got ready for school.
Sometimes, I’d stay home to help her set up for the next job; other times, she brought me along to keep me safe.
Sometimes, the clients came to her house, and sometimes, she went to them, so it was hard to predict what might happen each day. At least she always kept the money separate from the rest of the household funds, which meant she only took what she needed, and none of the bad guys ever suspected that there was more than one person living under the same roof.
At first, things were tough. No matter where we lived, we often slept in basements, garages, attics, and closets. My life was pretty much spent running around, trying to hide from whoever was coming after us. Whenever someone knocked on the door, we’d lock ourselves inside whatever room we happened to be using, and we wouldn’t come out until it was completely dark outside.
If anyone bothered to look closely at our situation, they’d realize we were poor. After all, we didn’t have a single piece of furniture, and the few clothes we owned consisted of tattered jeans, shirts, and socks. What mattered most to us was staying alive. If people judged us for being broke, well, that was their problem.
A lot of kids mocked us for having such little stuff, but I knew better. We were rich. Our lives had been stolen from us. So far, nobody had managed to take any of our memories. As long as we didn’t lose too many pieces of our past, I was certain we would live forever.
One night, three years later, we arrived in a small town in Michigan. From the moment we stepped off the Greyhound bus, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. Something about this place seemed familiar. Sure enough, as soon as I saw the sign hanging above the main street, I remembered it from somewhere else.
“We’re here,” said my mother. “Welcome to Port Jefferson, Michigan.”
***
In spite of how happy we both were, it took another year for me to recover fully from my injuries. By then, we had found decent jobs, and I began to forget about the pain and fear that threatened to overwhelm me during my recovery process. With time, the nightmares faded away, and the voices no longer screamed in my ears. Now, all I thought about was becoming a normal kid again.
During my physical therapy sessions, I discovered that my right leg hadn’t grown properly. The bone had healed crookedly, and because the muscles didn’t function correctly, I limped whenever I ran. Despite the cumbersomeness of wearing braces and crutches, I worked harder than everyone else to get back to normal.
Even though I hated it, I endured the discomfort, pushed myself through the pain, and eventually made significant progress.
While working part-time, I also enrolled in college courses online, and by graduation, I finally earned my diploma. Once I turned eighteen, I applied for medical school, and six months later, I received an acceptance letter from Harvard University. When I read the letter, I couldn’t believe it. This is the life I’ve dreamed of since childhood—a life filled with purpose.
I’ll make a difference someday.
That’s when I realized that not everybody gets to choose the path they follow in life. Some people are destined to become doctors or lawyers, and others, like me, will spend their entire lives searching for something they can call their own.
For some, success comes quickly. Others may need to wait several years, and still, others won’t discover their true calling for decades if they even manage to achieve anything worthwhile at all. In truth, nothing lasts forever, and life has its ups and downs, twists and turns, good days and bad moments.
That’s why it’s important to hold onto hope: to dream big, and to try your best to turn your dreams into reality.
But what happens when you never get the chance? What if the choices you make don’t lead anywhere meaningful? How do you survive? How do you move forward without losing sight of who you really are?
The answer lies within each of us, waiting patiently for the courage to embrace it.
So let’s start over. Let’s begin today, tomorrow, and every day moving forward. It doesn’t matter whether you decide to pursue medicine or art. Whatever your choice may be, know that you have the power to change the world. You just need to find your way.
The End