One Person at a Time
"What, you already wrapped up the interview?"
"Yeah. Now I just have to go back to the office, transcribe the recording as-is, and put it up. Time to give those clowns who wrote fiction into their articles a proper education."
"It's not even fiction. They're just copy-pasting internet tabloid garbage..."
"Same difference."
The two reporters chattered between themselves the whole way back to our apartment, each of them lugging a box of fried chicken and a case of Bacchus energy drinks.
Reporter Kim had finally gotten the chicken he'd been angling for. Whether that was actually something to celebrate remained to be seen.
I was walking on my own two legs again, having gotten my crutches back.
Well. Two legs, plus crutches.
Those counted as my legs too, in a way. Probably.
Reporter Park had insisted once again on carrying me, but even if a woman might feel less uncomfortable being carried by another woman than by a man, she was still a person.
"I'm not really comfortable with that kind of thing. I can walk on my own, so you don't need to help me with that."
"Ah, I see..."
I knew she wasn't a bad person. The deal was already done, so accepting a kindness as small as being carried would probably have been fine. But I still couldn't bring myself to depend on someone else that much. I always felt more at ease when I'd done more for the other person than they'd done for me.
Handing the Downstairs Neighbor Aunt those expensive meat gift certificates had been enough to offset her coming with me to the hospital, hadn't it? Of course, I did believe her when she said she helped because I was like a daughter to her. Still. Being carried by the aunt was fine. Anyone else, not so much.
If I had to pick someone else I wouldn't mind being carried by, it would probably be the Next-door Sister.
Celesty made me uncomfortable too. It wasn't that being carried by her sat wrong with me emotionally — the viewers were the ones paying her fee, after all. But Celesty had a smell. Not a bad smell, not an unpleasant one. Just something that kept snagging at my attention, something I couldn't quite ignore.
So I said I'd walk myself, and Reporter Park let it go.
We made it to the apartment entrance without anyone dropping the chicken this time.
"You're back? Oh, these people are..."
As I drew closer, the security guard stepped out of his booth with a distinctly uneasy look on his face. They seemed to know each other. Well, of course they did. A pack of reporters hanging around the playground waiting for a scoop wouldn't have made a great impression. They might even have tried to enter the building and gotten turned away.
"Ah, they're reporters. They asked for a quick interview. We're all done now, and they'll be leaving soon. This is to thank you for looking out for me."
I offered a bit of an explanation on their behalf, took the Bacchus from Reporter Park, and held it out to the security guard. My arms were weaker than I'd expected. Even bracing myself on the crutches, they trembled under the weight. The security guard took it from me in a mild panic.
"No, no, you eat it, kid. Want me to walk you up to your place?"
"I bought this for you. Well, I didn't actually buy it myself, but... anyway. If it weren't for you, I really might have gotten beaten to death. So please take it."
"Well, I'll be... All right. Thank you. I'll enjoy it."
Fortunately, he accepted the Bacchus without any more fuss. Thank goodness I wouldn't have to haul that heavy thing all the way up to my apartment. Of course, if I had tried to take it, the security guard probably would have carried it up for me. But that wasn't why I'd given it to him.
All my business was done. It was time to end this eventful outing and go home.
I took the chicken from Reporter Kim — who'd been so eager to carry it — and said my goodbyes to the two reporters.
"Well, I can't say we got off to the best start. But I'll enjoy the chicken."
"Ahaha. Please do. We'll write a thorough article so that no one else has to go through what you did."
"You think one article from us is going to change the world? We're just doing this to screw over the hacks who write garbage and then strut around calling themselves journalists."
Leaving the two bickering reporters behind, I stepped into the apartment building.
I walked down the cool hallway and boarded the elevator waiting on the first floor. I hooked the packaged chicken over the elevator handrail, bracing it against my hip, and reached into my shirt pocket for the phone I'd tucked so carefully inside. It was far lighter than the chicken or the Bacchus, but just pulling that one phone out made the weight on my shoulder drop away all at once.
"Mm. Everyone, it took a little while, but I managed to get the chicken home safely. No, wait — the half-seasoned, half-fried just evolved into an all-drumstick chicken, so I actually came out ahead on the trade, didn't I?"
The viewers welcomed me back with their usual fuss. I was still in the elevator, and yet it already felt like I was home. That was how comfortable they were.
The viewers, however, seemed to be feeling something else entirely.
They were still hung up on what I'd said to the reporters before the interview — that excessive kindness felt like a burden. I winced and hurried to answer them.
"Ah, that was only about the real world, where you never know what someone is going to ask of you. Don't you feel the same way? If you're walking down the street and you drop your phone and a stranger picks it up for you, you say thank you and move on. But if they suddenly hand you a piece of candy, that makes you uneasy, right?"
The point seemed to have gone a little sideways. The people who were going to get it would get it on their own, though. So I took the chance to say what I actually felt.
"But you all just come to my stream to hang out, purely for the fun of it. So you're not a burden. I'm just grateful."
Maybe saying it wasn't a burden had offended them. Donations poured in as if they were determined to make me feel one, just once.
I was grateful. Of course I was grateful. But was it really all right to accept this?
"Uh, um, everyone's kindness means a lot, but... is it really okay for me to take this...?"
For a second, my resolve actually wavered.
Asking me to put on an outfit that wouldn't suit me in the slightest and dance was obviously a joke. But I was starting to understand — even pure kindness, if it piled up this high with no way to repay it, couldn't help but feel like a burden.
"Whew. You gave it, so I'll use it gratefully. I was already thinking of buying a wheelchair with the settlement money anyway. Ah, I'm here. I'll switch over to the home PC and start the stream again. Just give me a minute."
So I made myself a promise. I would keep doing the one thing I was actually good at, and do it hard. I'd take a page from Celesty's book — no controversy, no swearing, just quietly playing the game.
I tucked the phone away, ended the broadcast, and stepped off the elevator.
The front door handle still creaked. I really needed to fix that one of these days.
I punched in the familiar passcode, opened the door, dumped the crutches in a heap by the entrance, and crawled into my room. I peeled off the uncomfortable swimsuit too, tossing it onto the laundry pile that had been accumulating in the corner. I'd throw it all in the washer later, in one go.
What mattered right now was the chicken.
And not just any chicken — a box packed entirely with drumsticks.
I woke the computer from sleep mode and cleared the desk so the camera would catch the chicken.
"I'm home. Here — this is the chicken I got instead of the one that hit the pavement. It really is nothing but drumsticks."
The viewers tossed out their usual nonsense. I huffed a small laugh at the familiarity of it — at the simple comfort of being back in my own seat — and reached for the chicken.
Chat exploded.
Even without the pile-on, those messages were enough to make me freeze. No matter how little I'd touched out there, no matter how short the outing had been — going outside was going outside. I should wash my hands.
"You all sound just like the Next-door Sister. Ah, that's a compliment. I mean it."
I didn't actually mind it at all, so I said it with a hint of teasing in my voice and headed for the bathroom. Crawling back into the room after washing my hands would have defeated the entire purpose, so on the way back I hopped — really hopped, for the first time in a while. Then I held my roughly towel-dried hands up to the camera for the viewers to inspect.
"There. Hands washed, right? Now I'm eating the chicken."
ASMR — they wanted me to make the eating sounds loud enough for the mic to catch, then. I'd been taught not to smack my lips, but if I just brought my mouth close to the microphone, that should do it. They weren't asking me to shove my face into the camera. I could manage that much.
So I deliberately rustled the paper as I lifted one of the eight drumsticks from the box. Even just holding it, I could feel the warmth and the crunch of that golden chicken. I brought it close to the mic and bit down.
Crunch. A sound that tickled the ears, and beneath it the drumstick announced itself in full, juices flooding my mouth. The chicken had been seasoned just on the salty side of perfect, and every chew made my mouth feel richer, fuller. Taking it slow for the sake of the ASMR only made it better — I could linger on the juice, on the springy give of the meat. I would have sworn even the grease on my fingers tasted good.
"Ah, this is really good. Thanks to all of you I get to eat chicken, and it feels amazing. I think I can stretch this for four days."
Come to think of it, this was the first time I'd ever shown myself eating on stream. I didn't think I'd ever mentioned reheating that pizza over and over, either.
"Look, counting the one in my hand, that's eight drumsticks. Two a day for four days. I could probably eat three, but three a day for two days and then two on the third would throw off the balance. So two a day divides evenly. It's neat."
The viewers refused to understand. Well, if they couldn't understand, what was I supposed to do about it? I was the one eating the chicken.
They should just be grateful I wasn't doing anything weird, and was eating the chicken I'd brought home exactly as it was.