Health, Wealth & Unhappiness

Jeff sits in his car, fingers drumming the wheel, eyes glued to the clock. The phone buzzes. "Hey, little bro." Bobby’s voice fills the cabin. "You grab her yet?" "She’s clearing customs," Jeff says. Bobby laughs, jokes about contraband. Jeff shuts it down. He’s tired of the running gag. Bobby presses, worries about a girl no one’s ever seen, a mail-order bride and a fortune ripe for the taking. Jeff insists he knows her, that their talks mean something. Bobby tries to finish the sentence, but Jeff spots her through the glass and kills the call. Almost a year later, Anna sits beside him as the engine ticks in their driveway. She’s still wide-eyed at everything American. Inside the bedroom that night she hands him his pills, says she filed his paperwork. Wrong bottle. Jeff hesitates, suspicion flickering when he remembers adding her to the will. He kisses it away and climbs into bed. Brakes fail a week later; a cut line, the mechanic admits. Jeff comes home bleeding and calls the shop again. The puncture could’ve been deliberate. That night he tears through her drawer and finds a funeral-home flyer. When Anna walks in he corners her, shirt half-open, fury pouring out. He’s done being played. He yanks his belt loose, eyes locked on hers. "Think I’m some idiot you can milk and bury?" he growls, daring her to flinch while he strips.