"Given the circumstances, you're not eligible for the loan now, unfortunately," - said the advisor, and I just stared at him, silent and stunned. We'd been sitting like that for some time, listening to the silence in the advisor's office. "If I can help with anything else, sir, I'd be happy to. Otherwise, it was really nice meeting you," he said to me, smiling like he didn't care at all what was at stake for me. Some part of me was convinced that he might have some compassion for what's left of a person in front of him, but overall I didn't harbor illusions about financial clerks. They've always been cold-blooded bastards, to say the least.

"You do realize that I'm not... Fine, so to speak?" asked I.

"Sure, I realize what happened to you, sir. It's a miracle that you're alive and healthy now, I'm so happy for you," he blurted.

"What the actual fuck?!" I shrieked inside, fighting my urge to sink my teeth into his neck. Talking like that with a disabled person was beyond me. "Mr. Anderson," I started, choosing words carefully. "I do need a loan, desperately. You can use my apartment as a collateral if you want to or I can provide you with an additional guarantor. We can do both. Can you help me?" I stopped for a second. "Please."

Silence arised in the office. Mr. Anderson took a deep breath, shifting his gaze somewhere at the ceiling. I caught his gaze, it was a surveillance camera. He opened his mouth but closed it again in an instant. The sweat appeared on his forehead. He hesitated, looking like he was silently panicking as he was dancing on the thin ice at the moment. Finally, he said, "I, em, well, I understand how hard it was for you to lose your arms and legs. It's not something that happens every day, sir, I understand, yes." He stopped, biting his lip. "The bank... Has procedures, you know? They just can't afford giving credits to everybody who's in need, I wish they could, sir!" his eyes widened and something similar to pity showed up on his face. I didn't believe that expression anyway.

We both just stared at each other. A smart-looking middle-aged bank employee, healthy and wealthy at its finest; and me, a person with no money left, in his 50s, sitting in a super-techy wheelchair that I could operate with my mouth as I didn't have limbs anymore. I bet we both felt like incomprehensible aliens towards each other.

"This is not in my power. I'm sorry. This is... Just not..." he mumbled, closing his face with both hands. Suddenly, I giggled, without releasing my frowned eyebrows. With that tense expression, I took a special manipulator in my mouth to start rotating to the door behind me to leave that place.

My mother always told me, "Don't you ever feel pity for yourself, Georgie, right? Whatever happens is your task to solve, but not your problem." Well, that approach had been working all my life until it didn't. I faced my first real problem that might be the last one.