I’m 14F. Three years ago, my dad died in a motorcycle accident caused by a drunk driver. To most people, he was the rough, scary president of a biker club. To me, he was the man who kissed my forehead every night and told me, “Real strength is protecting people weaker than you.” When he died, my mom was pregnant with my baby brother.

Suddenly, she was alone with three kids and another on the way. This summer, my classmate Ethan’s mom was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. The bills were CRUSHING his family. I couldn’t let him lose his mom the way I lost my dad. So I started crocheting little animals—cats, bears, bunnies—and selling them downtown with a sign: “ALL MONEY FOR ETHAN’S MOM’S CANCER TREATMENT.” Unfortunately, people were in no hurry to buy toys.

Some walked past, ignoring me. Some stopped, asked to see my creations, but didn’t buy anything. Some even said that it was TOO EXPENSIVE. “THIS LITTLE GIRL IS PROFITING FROM OTHER PEOPLE’S GRIEF!” they said.

Then suddenly, a boy from our school, Caleb, pulled up in his shiny black car. Rich, cocky, senior. The type whose Instagram is all vacations and designer shoes. He tossed A THICK STACK OF BILLS on my table. “Here, princess.

DON’T SPEND IT ALL IN ONE PLACE!” His friends laughed. I thought I’d just saved Ethan’s mom’s life. I ran home clutching the cash, shouting to Mom, “Mom, FINALLY… WE DID IT!” But she touched the bills, frowned, and whispered: “Honey… these are fake.” Counterfeit. All of it. I broke. I curled up on the floor sobbing. I wasn’t helping anyone—I was just a joke to them. The next night, I was crying into my pillow when I heard it. ENGINES. Not one. Not two. DOZENS. I ran to the window. THIRTY motorcycles lined the street, headlights glowing like fireflies. My mom gasped. Then one of the biggest, scariest-looking men stepped off his bike, came right up to me, and growled: “Hey, kid. You’re coming with us!”  Continue reading below in C0MMENTS