The flower isn’t big. About as big as the bottom of my palm to the tips of my fingers. It looks incredibly delicate, like it will crush if I hold it even a little too harsh. It’s pale pink color dried out, which worries me the most, but it’s no less beautiful. It’s a flower. Flowers are for admiring, or giving to a loved one on a good day, or stomping on, maybe, if you had a bad one. They’re not usually important. But somehow, this one is. I finger it carefully. It’s one of the last of it’s kind, more valuable than anything even kings or the Queen could offer. I set it inside my pack, momentarily hesitating before I sling it over my shoulder. I didn’t trust myself not to feel a pickpocket and there wasn’t a much better option than to keep it zipped securely in my satchel. On my quest to get this to where it belongs, I would defend it with my life. There was no question of that. But being dead wouldn’t help anyone, and it definitely wouldn’t save Mom, so I vowed not to die either. I burst open the door and start running through the street, switching to a power walk whenever I saw someone to avoid suspicion. I only had one mile to go, and one mile could mean a lot of things. One mile before I get everything I ever wanted. One mile before all of this is worth it. One mile. What can possibly go wrong in one mile? This flower is one of the last of it’s kind, the only cure to heal the disease that has been tearing through the world and killing everything. It soaked into the land years ago, into the food and hit everyone no matter what you did. It’s fatal, it’s ruinous. It tore you apart from the inside out, but slowly, ever so slowly. Many are immune, like I am, but there are always more sick than immune, and a crop of the flowers that heal this only grows once in seven years. I don’t care much about anyone else, if they really deserve it they can find their own way. The only person I’m thinking about is my mother, who’s gotten the illness and has been getting worse at an alarmingly high rate. A shiver passes through me, and the world darkens slightly, like a shadow has suddenly covered up everything I can see. I can’t control what I’m doing anymore. It’s like I’m out of my own body, watching myself. I’m dizzy. I’m walking backwards. I’m walking sideways. I’m frozen in place. Everything turns. My hands are moving. I’ve grabbed the satchel and am lifting it up. My hands tense in a springing position, ready to throw. I snap out of my dream-like sequence and tear my hands away, grabbing the purse before it even falls. I breathe a sigh, until I see the horrible sight of it. The flower, lying there lone on the cold hard pavement. I have no idea how it got there. But it’s just out of reach. I don’t think. I reach for it, grabbing and lunging with the full force of everything I have. I fall on my front and hit the ground hard. I see it, lying just a few inches away from my outstretched hand. And I watch in agony as it stretches away even more in an unnatural hopping motion, almost like the flower could jump. The ground starts shaking so violently I don’t even try to get up. I glance at the flower again, only to find a devastating bouquet of thousands of small flowers that look exactly the same. It’s a game, I figure out quickly enough. Whoever is doing this, they are making this a game. My mind races. Who am I playing? Who is powerful enough to do this? Perhaps someone who works for the Queen. Or maybe someone working lone, like I am. Then I start to question; anyone else would take the flower and get out as quickly as possible, but it seemed like whoever was doing this just had fun by toying with me. “I don’t work for the Queen, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say. The ground stills. I can finally get to my feet safely. I take that as a good sign. It’s obvious that this has stroke their curiosity; then who do I work for? “The flower cannot be mass produced, no matter what she may have told you,” I start reciting, growing desperate. “It’s remaining seeds have already been planted, and only will grow, like the rumors say, in seven years. The Queen thinks I am working for her, but in truth I have no intention of bringing this to her,” “You’re wrong,” a voice like a twisted melody, a sugary soft poison, overtakes everything in my ears. I inhale sharply. “I always knew.” I twist around to find something right out of my worst nightmare. I have the sudden urge to bend over and throw up. Suddenly I’m doubting if I’ll ever be able to walk again, let alone go that remaining mile. Everything I have been running from has finally caught up with me and now I’m going to have to pay for it. It’s her. My worst nightmare. The Queen.