Chapter 2: Lessons in Survival

When I was five, I had a high fever—over 104 degrees.

I was delirious, couldn’t even cry, just curled up in my adoptive mom’s arms, quietly sobbing.

Everything was blurry—Mom’s voice sounded far away, and the lights above me buzzed like angry bees.

The walls of the pediatric ER glowed fluorescent green. My mom sat there, rocking me, singing old Taylor Swift songs off-key to keep me awake.

When the doctor came to give me a shot for the fever, the moment he pulled out the needle, my adoptive mom exploded: "That needle’s so thick! Are you trying to kill her?"

She shielded me with her arm, glaring like a mama bear with a law degree.

"Will it leave a scar? My daughter will wear bikinis in the future!"

Priorities, always. Even sick, I managed a weak giggle.

My adoptive dad stood by, face dark as thunder.

He grabbed the doctor by the collar, voice icy: "If you can’t save her, you don’t need to keep your license."

The doctor’s hands shook so badly he almost missed the injection.

He muttered something about malpractice insurance. My mom almost fainted.

That night, my fever finally eased a little. In a daze, I opened my eyes to see my adoptive dad sitting by the bed, his eyes red.

He held my tiny hand and said softly, "If you die, your mom and I... we don’t want to live either."

He tried to brush it off as a joke, but even at five, I knew he meant it.

Later, I learned he nearly tore the hospital down that night.

Legend says the security guards still tell stories about "that crazy CEO who almost bought the ER."

On my sixth birthday, I got kidnapped.

The kidnappers demanded a million dollars.

They called during my party—while I was blowing out the candles on a unicorn cake. Dad’s face went from happy-dad to stone-cold in a split second.

My adoptive dad listened to the call in silence, then withdrew a million in cash from the bank.

He stacked it in a duffel bag, all neat $100s, then sat down to watch ESPN until the drop-off time.

The kidnappers kept their word: after getting the money, they let me go.

But during the handoff, the man in the skull mask suddenly slapped me across the face.

My left cheek burned, and tears sprang to my eyes.

I tasted blood and birthday cake in the same breath.

The next instant, my adoptive dad’s hand was around the kidnapper’s throat.

"Which hand did it?" he asked, voice calm as if discussing the weather.

He said it like he was ordering takeout. Cold, casual, terrifying.

Before the kidnapper could react, my adoptive dad pulled a hunting knife and, following the palm lines, sliced the flesh off as if filleting a fish.

His eyes didn’t even flicker—he was calm, surgical, like he was slicing a steak for dinner.

He did it so cleanly, the kidnapper didn’t even scream for a second.

My adoptive mom stood by, putting on lipstick, glanced at the screaming man, and frowned in disgust: "Too noisy."

She rolled her eyes, took a selfie, and posted it with the caption: #mood.

She snapped her fingers, and four men in suits stepped out of the shadows.

They looked like Secret Service agents, but cooler. One gave me a lollipop. Trauma, American-style.

A week later, that kidnapper, dressed in a pink tutu, was dumped in the roughest part of Detroit.

Rumor has it, the local news did a story. My parents saved the clip.

From then on, my bedtime stories changed.

Sesame Street was replaced with Human Anatomy.

My dad read it in the voice of Big Bird—still freaky.

Sailor Moon became The Handbook of Toxicology.

My adoptive dad sat by my bed, coaxing, "Anna, do you know where to hit so it hurts the most but leaves no scar?"

He took my finger and gently pointed just under his ribs. "Here, the liver. Use a short, sharp force—hurts like hell, but only leaves a tiny red dot."

He showed me how with a carrot. I never looked at carrots the same way.

My adoptive mom was even more direct.

She gave me a kids’ makeup kit, filled with colorful powders.

Each compact was secretly labeled on the bottom. She made a game out of memorizing which color did what.

"Red is cyanide, blue paralyzes, white mixed into drinks causes amnesia..."

She pinched my cheek, smiling sweetly. "Girls need to know how to protect themselves, okay?"

She taught me to say it with sugar, hide it with steel.

I started dreaming in diagrams—arteries, pressure points, all the places you could press to make a grown man cry.