Chapter 1: Broke and Desperate

I was broke. Like, ramen-for-dinner, bank account barely scraping double digits, rent notice on the fridge broke. I was at the end of my rope. My stomach growled so loud it could’ve been a ringtone. My rent notice glared at me from the fridge like a dare.

So when an ad popped up on my phone promising daily cash, I didn’t even blink. It was exactly the kind of too-good-to-be-true scheme you hear about on late-night radio, but I figured, what did I have to lose? I hit sign up without a second thought. Spending money? In this economy? Piece of cake. Half-watching reruns of The Office, I prayed my luck would finally change.

The system’s promise was simple: every day, money would be transferred to me. All I had to do was spend every cent by midnight. If I didn’t, I’d be eliminated—immediately.

That word—eliminated—hung in the air like a storm cloud. A shiver crawled down my spine. Eliminated could mean anything—kicked out, or... well, let’s not go there. But desperation makes you reckless, so I didn’t care.

I hit sign up without a second thought. Spending money? In this economy? Piece of cake.

I couldn’t help but grin. America is the land of shopping sprees and Black Friday stampedes. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s spending money. I could torch cash faster than you can say "Target Run."

[Ding! Venmo incoming: $1]

Wait, just a dollar? Seriously, system?

I rolled my eyes, half-suspecting my techie cousin was pranking me. I wandered down to the corner gas station—the one with the flickering open sign, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the scent of burnt coffee and motor oil thick in the air. Two Dum Dums later, my pockets were lighter, and my phone buzzed again.

I bought two lollipops, and the system chimed in:

[Ding! Venmo incoming: $2]

[Ding! Venmo incoming: $4]

[Ding! Venmo incoming: $8]

At first, I thought maybe I’d hit some glitch, or the system was feeling generous. But the numbers kept doubling. It hit me: this was that exponential growth thing—the same one your high school math teacher tried to scare you with.

Hold up—this is an exponential get-rich system.

My brain, still foggy from last night’s cheap beer, finally caught up. I started to sweat. This wasn’t a lazy trickle. This was about to spiral out of control, fast.

I needed help. I posted a desperate question on Reddit’s r/NoStupidQuestions: Can someone help me do the math? How many days do I have left to live?

1.

I’m toast.

Even my toes could figure this out—I’m doomed.

I didn’t need a Ph.D. in finance to see where this was going. Just hearing the word "exponential" made my stomach lurch.

My fingers shook as I typed the numbers into my phone’s calculator, praying I’d made a mistake. If the system transferred money twenty more times, each payment would be over a million. Thirty times? Over a billion. Forty? Over a trillion. Fifty? We’re talking a hundred trillion.

It was like playing The Price Is Right, except Bob Barker was trying to murder you with math.

Even if they paid me in Monopoly money, I’d still need a wheelbarrow. Heck, I’d probably have to rent a moving truck.

I pictured myself flinging pink five-dollar bills around a plastic toy house, my neighbors peeking through the window as I totally lost it.

Two hours of existential dread later, I gave up fighting fate.

I sprawled on my futon, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to laugh, but it sounded more like a dying balloon. I thought about all the things I’d never do—climb Everest, try a cronut, finally pay off my student loans. It was so dark, it was almost funny.