The day my biological father sent me to a reality TV bootcamp, the production crew already had the trending hashtag written out: “Billionaire Father Sends Spoiled Son to Farm to Cure Affluenza.” For the first meal, the producers deliberately served hard, dry cornbread, fully expecting to film the “rich kid” throwing a tantrum over peasant food. But while the other cast members grimaced and put their food down, I grabbed the basket and started stuffing my face, unable to stop. The live stream comments ripped into me, calling my acting pathetic. The host saw me shivering as I choked on the dry bread and quickly handed me a glass of water. “Have you… never eaten a full meal before?” she asked, surprised. Clutching half a piece of cornbread in my shaking hand, I finally told the truth. “My food budget for the entire month is three hundred dollars.” In the observation room, the glass in my father’s hand shattered on the floor. He shot to his feet. “Who the hell told him I only give him three hundred dollars?!” Chapter 1 Before we pulled into the farm location, my mom parked her SUV on the side of the road. She didn’t unlock the doors immediately. Instead, she turned to look at me in the passenger seat. “Liam, listen to me. Once we get in front of those cameras, you keep your mouth shut.” I gripped the straps of my backpack and nodded. She frowned deeply. “Don’t just nod. Did you hear me?” “I heard you.” “And specifically, do not mention money.” She locked her eyes onto mine, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “Your dad hates it when you beg for cash. If you say something stupid on camera, he might cut off the little bit he’s giving you right now.” My fingertips went ice cold. Three hundred dollars a month. Food, bus fare, haircuts, phone bills… it all had to come out of that. My mom, Sarah, always told me he was too busy, too strict, and absolutely despised it when I acted ungrateful. She told me that I lived with her because my dad didn’t want me after the divorce. Later, when his business exploded and he became wealthy, she claimed he only sent a tiny, symbolic amount every month out of residual guilt. “Don’t expect too much,” she would tell me. “Just because he has money doesn’t mean he wants you wasting it.” Last night, my dad, Richard, had actually called me. I had just walked out of the college dining hall. My meal card balance was $3.20. Through the glass, I saw warm, fresh dinner rolls for $1.50 each. I stared at them for a long time, but I didn’t buy one. Because I had to take the bus back to my mom’s house. Bus fare was $2.00. The money I had left was only enough for a one-way trip. When I answered the phone, Richard’s voice was freezing cold. “Liam, your mother tells me you’re throwing another fit about money?” I gripped my phone tight. “I’m not.” He paused for a few seconds. “You’re not? Then why did she tell me your allowance ‘wasn’t enough’ again this month?” I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. But I hadn’t dared to ask for more. I had simply asked Sarah if she could front me next month’s three hundred dollars a few days early. My hair hadn’t been cut in over a month, and it was poking into my eyes. I literally couldn’t scrape together twenty bucks for a haircut. On the other end of the line, Richard suppressed his anger. “I’m not telling you not to spend money.” “But you have to have some sense of boundaries. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” “It’s not easy for your mother to manage you.” After he hung up, I stood outside the dining hall for a long time. The wind stung my eyes. I just didn’t understand. I was already being so incredibly cheap. Why, in his eyes, was I always so terrible? Outside the car window, the show’s host, Chloe, walked over. She knocked lightly on the glass with a bright smile. “Sarah, we’re ready for you.” My mom instantly shifted her expression. Her eyes dropped, her mouth tightened into a strained line. She played the part of the exhausted, heartbroken mother perfectly. “Chloe, thank you so much for this.” “His father really didn’t want to do this, but the boy genuinely needs to experience some hardship.” The cameraman zoomed in. Chloe asked me: “Liam, do you know why you’re here at the Fresh Start Bootcamp?” I stared into the black lens of the camera. It looked like a bottomless well. My mom pressed her finger subtly into my shoulder. I answered mechanically: “To experience the real world.” Chloe pressed further: “And?” I hesitated for two seconds. “To learn how to appreciate what I have.” Sarah smiled, looking deeply satisfied. “He’s just stubborn,” she told the camera. “His father gives him an allowance, but he always complains it’s not enough.” “When I try to correct him, he thinks we’re just being controlling.” “That’s why his dad finally made the tough decision to send him here to build some character.” I stood next to her, letting her slap a massive, public label on my forehead. Spoiled. Picky. Ungrateful. But last night, before I went to her house, all I had eaten for dinner was half of a cold, stale roll. It was completely flattened in my backpack. When I took a bite, crumbs fell all over the table. I carefully picked up every single crumb and put it in my mouth. Because I couldn’t afford to waste it. Chapter 2 When Sarah left, she put on one final performance for the cameras. She held my hands, her eyes rimmed with red. “Liam, Mom isn’t asking you to become some massive success.” “I just want you to stop breaking your father’s heart.” The camera panned down to my shoes. They were cheap, gray canvas sneakers, and the sole was tearing away from the fabric on the side. Last night, I had wrapped a layer of clear packing tape around the shoe to hold it together. When I walked, the cold air still leaked in. The production crew probably assumed I was wearing trashed shoes on purpose just to play up the “reality TV” aesthetic. No one asked. Chloe led the five cast members into the farmhouse courtyard. One guy dragged a pristine white suitcase covered in anime keychains. A girl wearing limited-edition headphones immediately asked if there was Wi-Fi. A brother-and-sister duo complained loudly about the sun and the dirt roads. The courtyard wasn’t terrible. Brick walls, wooden doors. In the outdoor kitchen, there was firewood and sacks of cornmeal. The second I walked in, the smell of raw grains hit me. Just the faint, dusty scent of dry cornmeal. But my stomach violently contracted. Chloe announced our first tasks. Sweep the yard, carry water from the well, chop wood, feed the chickens. Only when we finished would we get dinner. Someone immediately protested: “What about lunch?” The director laughed from behind the monitor: “You’re here to experience the real world. That starts with reducing your reliance on others.” A chorus of groans erupted from the group. I didn’t make a sound. Reduce my reliance? I hadn’t relied on anyone for a very long time. At the start of my freshman year, Sarah sent me the usual three hundred dollars. The memo read: Make it stretch. I had to buy a mattress pad, textbooks, a washbasin, laundry detergent, and pay my dorm fees. I calculated every single item. I bought a used mattress pad from a senior for $25. I borrowed textbooks whenever I could; the ones I couldn’t, I bought used for $86. I bought the cheapest plastic washbasin at Walmart for $6.90. A travel-sized bottle of shampoo for $9.90. Dorm fees were $50. I recalculated the remaining cash three times. It wasn’t enough to eat. During the mandatory two-week freshman orientation, I ate one meal a day. For lunch, I bought two plain bread rolls and asked for a bowl of the free, watery broth from the cafeteria line. For dinner, I drank hot tap water. When my blood sugar crashed and my vision went black, I would just crouch down and wait for it to pass. One day, an RA asked me if I was feeling sick. I said, “I just didn’t sleep well.” The truth was, I was starving. Starving until my chest physically hurt. The cafeteria worker saw me constantly taking the free broth. One day, he quietly slipped an extra scoop of wilted cabbage into my bowl. I almost cried. After that, I stopped going to his line. I was terrified he would remember me. Terrified someone would realize I literally couldn’t afford to eat. During a scheduled break that afternoon, the producers orchestrated a “call home” segment. I didn’t expect Richard to actually answer. When the screen lit up, he was sitting in an immaculate, high-rise office. Tailored suit, perfect posture. I quietly said: “Dad.” He looked at me. His very first sentence was: “Was the manual labor exhausting this morning?” I was just about to shake my head, but he cut me off: “It’s good for you to be exhausted.” “Your mother tells me you’ve gotten far too comfortable at college. You complain about everything.” My throat seized up. “I don’t complain.” Richard frowned deeply. “Liam, I am tired of you denying everything.” “Your mother showed me the text logs of you constantly begging for things.” “You are nineteen years old. You can’t spend your entire life just thinking about indulging yourself.” My brain completely short-circuited. Indulging myself? But the cameras were rolling right next to me. My mom’s vicious warning was still ringing in my head. I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms they almost broke skin. “I understand.” Richard went quiet for a few seconds. He seemed even angrier. “You always say you understand.” “Liam, I hope this time, you actually mean it.” The call ended. The screen went black. I sat on the small wooden stool, suddenly feeling freezing cold. My college roommate, Tyler, used to tell me I was too stubborn for my own good. But I wasn’t stubborn. I was terrified. I was terrified that if I spoke up, I would lose the pathetic scraps of money keeping me alive. Chapter 3 At 2:00 PM, the production crew started eating their catered boxed lunches. The food wasn’t for us cast members. But when the smell drifted over, my head snapped up involuntarily. White rice. Braised beef and potatoes. Scrambled eggs with peppers. When they cracked open those plastic containers, the hot steam rolled out into the yard. I stared at it for a full second, then violently forced myself to look away. My stomach felt like it was being twisted in a vice. I turned around, went to the well to wash out the buckets, and splashed freezing water on my face. A few drops trickled down to the corner of my mouth. I almost stuck my tongue out to lick it up. It was pathetic. I kept my head down so the cameras wouldn’t catch my expression. The guy with the anime suitcase was named Leo. He walked over and handed me a tissue. “You look super pale, dude.” I took the tissue. “Thanks.” He studied me for a second. “Did you skip breakfast this morning?” I said, “I ate.” My fingers were visibly shaking as I lied. Leo wanted to ask more, but the director called him over for a solo shot, so he had to leave. I leaned against the stone well, trying to let the dizziness pass. Black spots swam in my vision. I had always been incredibly good at enduring things. In fifth grade, my school organized a field trip. The fee was $120. I brought the permission slip home. Sarah glanced at it once and shoved it into a drawer. “These kinds of activities are a complete waste of money.” “Your dad hates it when you bother him with random, pointless expenses.” The next morning, my entire class got on the charter bus. I sat alone in an empty classroom doing worksheets. When a teacher asked me why I didn’t go, I lied and said I got severe motion sickness on buses. In middle school, the uniform policy changed for the winter, but my old uniform jacket’s sleeves were two inches too short. During the winter months, my exposed wrists would turn purple from the cold. The teachers reminded me to buy a new one several times. I went home and told Sarah. She said: “If it still fits over your shoulders, don’t waste money.” “Your dad is incredibly busy with work right now. Do not bother him with trivial garbage like this.” So I wore that short-sleeved jacket through the dead of winter. My deskmate asked me if I was freezing. I said I was fine. In reality, every time I tried to take notes, my fingers were so numb I could barely hold the pencil. By dusk, the chores were finally wrapping up. I went to gather the chopped firewood. The second I hoisted the heavy bundle of wood into my arms, my vision went completely, terrifyingly black. I stumbled, and the wood crashed onto the dirt. Chloe rushed over immediately. “Liam?!” I braced myself against the brick wall, forcing a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just lost my grip.” She stared at me for a few seconds. “Take a break.” “I don’t need one.” “Your lips are literally white.” Her tone turned authoritative. “Sit down.” I had no choice but to sit against the courtyard wall. A crew member handed me a paper cup of warm water. I held the cup with both hands, taking tiny sips. The water hit my empty stomach like a drop in an abyss. Drinking it only made the agonizing hunger worse. Just then, Richard’s feed patched through the crew’s earpieces into the courtyard speakers. Watching me on the monitor, he asked: “Liam, are you pretending to be tough again?” I froze. His voice was hard and unrelenting. “Your mother told me you are an expert at playing the victim in front of strangers.” “I expect you not to bring that manipulative behavior onto national television.” My brain short-circuited. Playing the victim? I looked down at my violently trembling hands. I wanted to say: Dad, I’m not acting. I am genuinely starving. But I opened my mouth, and the only words that came out were: “I’m not.” Richard went dead silent. His silence hurt exponentially more than his accusations. It meant he had already acted as judge, jury, and executioner. At 6:30 PM, the long wooden dinner table was set up. Wooden bowls were placed down. A massive basket of steaming, dense cornbread. A pot of watery cabbage soup. A small dish of pickled vegetables. A few chunks of steamed sweet potato. The other cast members’ faces instantly dropped in disgust. “You have got to be kidding me. We’re actually eating this?” “This stuff is dense enough to choke someone.” “Is there literally no protein? Not even eggs?” “I starved all day chopping wood for this?” I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. My eyes were locked onto the basket of cornbread. Golden yellow, thick steam rolling off the top. They were piled high in the bamboo basket. There were so many of them. So many, it almost felt like a hallucination. Chapter 4 The first piece of cornbread was scalding hot. I ducked my head and took a massive bite. The coarse grain was dry, scratching my throat as I swallowed it down. But it was warm. The exact second that dense, hot food hit my stomach, my eyes instantly welled with tears. Terrified someone would notice, I ducked my head lower and ate even faster. Second bite. Third bite. The first piece was gone in seconds. I immediately reached out and grabbed a second one. Someone at the table let out a mocking laugh. “Wow, this guy is really committing to the bit.” “The cameras are right in his face, obviously he has to overact to get screen time.” “Didn’t his mom literally just say he was a picky eater? Now he’s rebranding as the humble country boy?” One of the guys scoffed loudly. “He definitely knows the live chat is ripping him apart for being a spoiled brat, so he’s trying to do damage control.” “The pampered rich kid angrily inhaling peasant food. So inspiring.” I heard them. I heard every single word. But I couldn’t stop. When you’ve been starving for as long as I have, your dignity is the absolute last thing that keeps you full. I wasn’t trying to go viral. I wasn’t trying to build a reality TV persona. I was just terrified the food was going to disappear. Terrified that this massive basket of warm food would be snatched away from me at any second. I picked up the bowl of cabbage soup and took a massive gulp. The broth was clear. Not a single drop of oil or fat in it. But to me, it tasted incredible. It tasted infinitely better than the free seaweed broth at the college cafeteria. I started eating a third piece of cornbread. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. The cameras pushed in closer and closer. The expressions on the production crew’s faces shifted from cynical amusement to genuine shock. The live stream chat was absolutely exploding. The comments scrolled furiously across the director’s monitor. “LMAO, did he forget he’s supposed to be a billionaire heir?” “The acting is way too forced. No rich kid looks at dry cornbread like it’s a Wagyu lobster.” “Bro, stop eating, the script is too obvious.” “His mom literally just said he orders DoorDash five times a day, and now he’s pretending he’s starving to death?” “I bet fifty bucks he starts fake-crying about how ‘ungrateful’ he used to be in about two minutes.” “Rich kids cosplaying poverty is disgusting. Actual poor people want to puke watching this.” I couldn’t see the text. But I could feel the suffocating weight of their stares. Their gazes felt like layers of plastic wrap, slowly suffocating me. Sticky, airless. My mouth was packed full of dry bread. I couldn’t articulate a single word of defense. Halfway through my seventh piece, I started choking. My throat felt like it was blocked by concrete. I desperately tried to force it down. Tears exploded from my eyes, streaming down my face. Chloe immediately handed me a glass of water. “Drink some water, Liam. Slow down.” I took the cup and chugged it. My stomach was painfully bloated and distended. But when a crew member reached out to slightly adjust the position of the bamboo basket, my hand shot out on pure, primal instinct and pinned the basket to the table. The entire courtyard plunged into stunned silence for a full second. Then, someone muttered quietly: “He’s actually food-guarding.” “Wow, this guy is a dedicated method actor.” “The director better give him an Oscar for this.” Chloe crouched down next to my chair. She wasn’t laughing. Her voice was incredibly soft. “Liam… no one is going to take it away from you.” No one is going to take it away from you. That sentence was utterly, completely foreign to me. I looked up at her, tears still tracking down my cheeks. The set medic was called over. She pricked my finger to check my blood sugar. When the number popped up on the monitor, she frowned deeply. “It’s dangerously low.” “Is this the only thing you’ve eaten all day?” I kept my head down, refusing to speak. Chloe asked me: “Liam, have you not been eating properly lately?” I still didn’t say a word. My mother’s vicious warning was echoing like a siren in my head. But right at that moment, the audio feed from the observation room cut through the speakers again. Richard’s voice echoed across the courtyard, dripping with barely suppressed disappointment. “Liam Hayes.” My entire body went rigid. He asked: “Why are you acting like this?” “Your mother told me you have never wanted for anything. Clothes, food, luxury items.” “I have never skimped on your allowance.” “And now you’re aggressively hoarding cornbread in front of national television cameras. Are you intentionally trying to make the world believe your family starves you?!” My knuckles turned white as I crushed the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand. Every single person in the courtyard was staring at me. I finally snapped. “But you do.” Richard froze on the other end of the line. I looked directly into the camera lens, the tears flowing uncontrollably now. “I am actually, genuinely starving.” I gripped the crushed bread so tightly my fingertips went numb. “My mother gives me exactly three hundred dollars a month.” “That three hundred dollars has to cover three meals a day, bus fare, haircuts, and my phone bill.” “I was too terrified to ask you for more because I was afraid you would hate me for bothering you.” Richard stared at the live feed of my face on the monitor. The heavy glass tumbler he was holding slipped through his fingers. CRASH. It shattered into a hundred pieces on the studio floor. His assistant jumped up in panic. “Mr. Hayes!” Richard acted like he didn’t even hear him. The next second, he violently launched himself out of his chair. His voice was trembling violently, yet razor-sharp and terrifying. “What number did he just say?” The director froze in shock. Richard stared dead at the monitor. “Who the hell told him I only give him three hundred dollars?!”
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