Chapter 4

I didn't argue about Caltech. I let Susan believe she'd won.

The next day, during my lunch break from the coffee shop, I called Dr. Evans, the university liaison who had interviewed me for the scholarship.

"Dr. Evans, it's Sarah Miller. There's... a family situation. I might need to defer my admission."

I could hear the genuine concern in her voice. "Sarah, you're an exceptional candidate. Is everything alright?"

"It's complicated," I said. "My family needs me to... provide support."

There was a pause. "Sarah," she said, her voice firm but kind, "this scholarship is for you. Your potential is immense. Don't let anyone take that away from you. We can arrange for online preparatory courses if you need to delay your physical arrival. We can find solutions."

Her unwavering belief was a lifeline.

"Thank you, Dr. Evans. I'll find a way."

And I would.

My escape fund grew slowly, pennies skimmed from grocery money, tips hidden from my barista job.

One evening, while shelving books at a part-time library gig I' d taken, a flyer caught my eye: "Community Motorcycle Maintenance Class."

On a whim, I signed up.

The instructor was a woman with grease-stained hands, a no-nonsense attitude, and eyes that missed nothing. Rochelle Jones. Rocky.

She ran a small custom motorcycle shop out of a cluttered garage.

I was clumsy at first, all thumbs and dropped wrenches. But the HPI-LPA made me a fast learner. I absorbed schematics, understood mechanics with an almost intuitive ease.

Rocky noticed.

"You got a knack for this, Miller," she said one day, wiping grease from her brow. "Most newbies cry when they strip a bolt."

I just shrugged. "It's logical."

We started talking. Not about much at first. Bikes. Tools. The weather.

But Rocky had a way of seeing past the surface.

"You look like you're carrying the world, kid," she said one evening, as we shared a lukewarm soda after class.

I didn't mean to, but it all spilled out. The LPAs. My family. The suffocating pressure. Not the rebirth part, of course. That was too much.

Rocky listened, her expression unreadable. When I finished, she just nodded.

"Family can be a real piece of work," she said. "My old man was a prize bastard."

She didn't offer pity, just a blunt understanding that was more comforting than any sympathetic platitude.

Her garage became my sanctuary. A place where I could breathe, where I could think.

She let me use her workshop, tinker with old engines. She taught me to weld, to fabricate.

And she never asked for anything in return.

While Susan and Mark were busy trying to mold Jessica into a poor imitation of a socialite, and Jessica was busy failing, I was quietly building my skills, my network, my escape plan.

I excelled in the online Caltech prep courses Dr. Evans arranged, my mind devouring complex physics and advanced calculus.

I started sketching designs for green energy solutions, ideas that had been brewing since my first life, now sharper, more focused, thanks to the HPI-LPA.

My family saw a quiet, overworked drone.

They didn't see the innovator taking shape in the shadows.