A Short Story

Chapter 1

“Not sure if you can tell,” Suzanne Price said, her agitated fingers trembling in front of her face as though covered in fresh blood, “but I am literally shaking right now.” She swallowed hard, locked eyes with the elevated red-cased phone beyond the steering wheel, and tucked some brown hair behind her ear.

It calmed her.

Or at least that’s what she wanted her audience to believe.

“So, I was in the parking lot, and I am not even joking,” she continued, lightly tugging on the front of her purple V-neck work blouse, “I was, uh, I’m sorry, I, uh, I can barely think straight after what just happened in this tiny fucking parking lot.” She covered her mouth, then cupped her chin. “Sorry for cursing, I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I…let me show you.” She took the phone from the dash mount, leaned into the door, and aimed the camera out the back window.

“You see it?” she asked, mimicking her mother’s southern drawl and focusing on the bright blue and white neon sign that hung over the glass door entrance. The top half of the sign was cut off, obscured by the hatchback window. She considered opening the door and getting a shot from outside, but decided against it. “The Side/Street Mart, or as I call it, The Side/Street Shithole, can be found on the corroded corner of Fountain and Washington here in disgusting, downtown—”

She stopped before revealing the town name but made up for it by grimacing at the rearview mirror. She glanced over her shoulder at the back seat as though something outside had pulled her focus. She re-fastened the phone to the dash mount, then scoured her surroundings. “Please tell me, you guys, heard that.”

That last part, like most of her rant, wasn’t true.

Her hotel, the Courtyard Bertling, was six blocks from where she sat and, based on the self-guided tour she grabbed that morning, it was crazy luxurious compared to most of the hotels she was used to.

Most of her clients rarely dropped this kind of cash on lodging. Most didn’t have that kind of dough in a savings account. Damien was different. He wasn’t just going places; he was already there. And lucky for her, he desired her company. She was eye candy, obviously. Not just for him, but the company as well. Unlucky for her, she was low-key falling in love with him, which was, understandably, against the rules.

Suzanne turned to the windshield, and scoured the street with a guise of terror to heighten the tension. She contemplated restarting the video. She didn’t like how that last section came out. Sure, it felt organic on the way out, but sounded weird in hindsight.

“Sorry, y’all,” she said, internally cringing at the dialectic contraction and forcing a smile. “I’m a little outta sorts, if you know what I mean. Gonna take a moment to regroup here after, you know, what happened.”

She could edit this part out, if necessary, and all the other brain farts before publishing the video. Professionally edited videos with tight cuts and no mistakes were still the internet norm, widely accepted and used by content creators all over the world.

That said, there was something about an uninterrupted clip that felt more satisfying.

Audiences wanted raw footage, visceral moments, real experiences. They didn’t just want it, they begged for it. They wanted content to relate to, organic moments that spoke to them. And in the era of fake news, the last thing any of them wanted was a script sold by someone pretending to understand the plight of the common man.

Suzanne closed her eyes and took two long, dramatized breaths. The first one calmed her, surprisingly. The second one was used to grab a quick peek at her appearance through the tiny cracks in her eyelashes. A soft, subtle voice in the back of her mind told her to forget it. Jump ship and fade back into reality while she still could. She ignored it, and later convinced herself that as long as she gave vague details and spoke generally, she’d stay out of trouble.

She opened her eyes and read the red timer on the camera. Seven seconds had passed.

“Sorry, I don’t even know where to start,” she babbled, clasping her hands together in her lap, “it all happened so fast and so…I don’t know.”

That part was true, she was out of her element and trying to find her way back.

She was forty-one, but felt like she was back in the tenth grade—trying to recall lines for a play she had spent weeks rehearsing only to forget them when she saw her crush, Curtis Faulkner, in the fourth row. She swallowed her discomfort, acted as if everything was as it should, angled the camera at her, and went for it. “And yes,” she nodded, “this place looks cute, but trust me, it’s run by a fucking creep! A fucking animal who, who didn’t just—sorry, I’m ranting—so there I was, standing in the parking lot, alone, with my two-year-old son, when this, this man came up behind me and—” she stopped, and wiped her face as if she were applying moisturizer. “I’m so sorry, I’m so anxious right now and—”

She dropped her hands, took a deep inhale through her nose, then blew it out her mouth.

“As I was saying, this gentleman,” she said, rolling her eyes, “this douchebag, if I’m being honest, followed me out to the parking lot. I didn’t see him, but I could feel his eyes, you know, on me. When I’d stop, he’d stop. When I’d start walking, he’d start walking. But when I got to my car, he didn’t stop. He just kept going, getting closer and closer to me and my child, and, and, and at that moment, I started having, you know, flashbacks. Not from real life, but from all of those late-night investigation shows about women getting snatched and never seen again. And that started to scare me because, as you can see, it’s dark out.”

She slowed her speech, recalled something her high school drama coach once told her while working on a sad audition monologue, then took a breath and ‘smiled through the pain.’   

“Anyways, the guy stopped about fifteen, twenty feet away and said ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ And, and, I just lost it. I spun around and was like ‘No, no, no, you do NOT come any closer! Do NOT approach me!’” Suzanne leaned back, checked the windshield, then dropped the punchline. “Turns out it was the store’s owner, or at least that’s what he told me after I fucking nailed his toxic-white-male-ass to the brick wall.”

She pressed a hand to her chest and leaned into her fake southern accent. “Again, excuse my non-Christian language, but it was bad, like, for real, it was intense. And I didn’t know what to do except, you know, stand my ground, but, but, but, I’m really glad I did, because…it worked. It didn’t just shift the power dynamic, the guy got all offended and was like ‘fuck you, lady! Fuck you and that white horse you rode in on.’ It was pathetic, terrifying, but also really empowering, you know?”

Suzanne bit her bottom lip. “And to makes matters worse,” she whispered, leaning into the phone, “the guy did all of this in front of my kid, who—Thank you Jesus—has finally settled down.” She checked the rearview mirror and scrunched her lips at the empty backseat. “You okay, baby?” She debated throwing out a random boy’s name to help solidify the story, but decided against it. “What’s that, baby?” She asked, then nodded. “Of course, baby, go to sleep. The bad man’s gone, you’re safe now. You’re always be safe with Mommy.”

That felt weird. Calling herself ‘mommy’ felt more awkward then saying, ‘ya’ll.’

She checked the ticking red timer, then threw up a finger. “Quick question for the ladies. What is it with men today? Like…if a man finds you attractive or hot, does that, by some predatory-man-code, give him the right to approach you in public? Tell me your thoughts in the comments.” She waved her hand away, then continued. “Anyways, I snapped at the man, literally snapped and told him to get out of my face or else I was gonna call the police. Like that’s what I literally said to his face.”

She was saying ‘literally’ too much. She realized that midway through the ‘out of my face’ line, but let it slide since most viral content creators spoke like this.

“And then, he called me a whore and lunged.” She paused, held her gaze, then nodded, “Yep, the fucker lunged at me, like legit lunged at me like a piece of meat he felt entitled to.”

Suzanne licked her lips, brushed a loose strand from her face, then pointed at the phone. “Here’s my point. Men should NEVER approach women in a parking lot. Never. Ever. Never ever should a man approach a lady in a parking lot. And if one does, ladies, scare the shit out of him. Seriously. Scare them. Give ‘em the strongest, most guttural voice you’ve got. And don’t be polite about it, really dig into them. Men, at the core, are predators. Not just designed to for it, but are ‘inherently’ designed to be predators. And biologically, that’s a fucking fact!”

She covered her mouth, glanced at the back seat, and resumed the tale. “Scare them, ladies. I’m serious. Make men fear you, make them uncomfortable, and don’t be afraid to dominate them. It keeps them in line and everyone safe. So, just a reminder. It’s a crazy world, ladies, do whatever you need to in order to feel safe.”

Suzanne ended the video, tapped the Next arrow, and added a filter that heightened her cheekbones. It also sharpened her purple blouse, softened the age spots on her neck, and darkened her neck fat. She studied the final screenshot and considered watching it as her thumb floated over the Publish button.

If she watched it, she’d critique it, become super self-conscious, and scrap the idea.

Publishing content without a re-watch tended to yield the best results for her anyway.

If all else failed and no one saw it, she’d delete it. 

She finalized the video, wrote a kitschy caption, and overwhelmed it with popular hashtags. There was #womansworld, #toxicmasculinity, and her favorite; #futureisfemale. She sat in silence, counted to ten, then retrieved a coconut cream malt beverage from the plastic sack in the passenger seat. She twisted off the cap, made a wish to the darkening pink and blue sky, and published the video. She took a long swig and leaned back into the headrest.

The phone dinged, citing a successful upload.

The streetlamps along Fountain Street flickered, then sprung to life.

Suzanne took another long swig, downed most of it, and tipped her forehead to the slowly ascending moon. She set the drink in the cup holder and went to start the engine.

Click.

Chapter 2

Eric Milton chucked his empty energy drink into the wastebasket and habitually checked the mirrors along the back of the store. He started with the beer fridge, moved to the dairy section, and ended with the sodas. The analog clock over the restrooms read 7:42 pm. He did another quick scan to make sure the floor was empty, then started his 8 pm register check.

He started with the large bills under the tray. Two Benjamins, a Grant, and two personal checks that totaled $159.60. One was from the very sweet (and very ancient) Ms. Rose Abernathy. She spent $84.60 on mostly pantry items. Bread, soup, Vienna sausages, milk, Earl Grey English tea, a generic box of antihistamine medicine and a bottle of cough syrup. The rest, which accounted for half the bill, comprised of cat food, soft and dry. The other check, signed by Wendell Green, totaled $75. It was mostly honey whiskey, theater box candy, vodka, and lottery tickets.

A little over a decade ago, Eric had, like most convenience stores, refused to accept checks. Everything had turned digital, so he figured he should adapt to the times. Yet, the elderly folk who frequented his shop had trouble adapting with him. Debit cards, credit cards, and PIN codes, all of those new technological advances didn’t jive with little old Rose. She tried to grasp the changes, but in the end, it all melded together. Sounded like gibberish.

He calculated the total in his mind, which came out to $409.60, then replaced the tray. He said the total in his mind over and over until he found a pen, then wrote it on a tiny yellow notepad. He counted the twenties, multiplied them accordingly, and added it to the sum.     

Eric was midway through the tens when his phone buzzed.

It was his wife, Allegra, homesick with the flu, reminding him to bring home two cans of chicken broth and a bottle of cough medicine. He read the message, nodded, and kept counting.

His twelve-year-old daughter, Nia—short for Lonnia, a name rarely used except for public events or when being reprimanded—sat at a black collapsible table behind the counter, wrapped in an orange hoodie with a small NASA patch on the left side of the zipper and a pair of thin red-rimmed spectacles. “Dad?” she asked, removing her earbuds and pausing the video on her laptop, “can I take a break?”

Eric mouthed the number seven, then nodded. “Can I quiz you first?”

Nia shoved her workbook to the edge of the table. “Go for it.”

Eric marked his place on the notepad, closed the register, and locked it with the green key from his belt loop. He took the workbook and flipped ahead to a list of ‘mock’ test questions. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” he asked dramatically, drawing out the question like an announcer in the ring clutching a dangling microphone. “Are you ready to have your wits tested, your brain teased, your mind blown beyond the realm of—”

Nia stopped him with a raised eyebrow.

Eric smiled, then tapped the middle of the page. “Name the first official American state?”

“Delaware.”

“The first president to live in the White House?”

“John Adams.”

“Who is America (or the Americas) named after?”

“Amerigo V-something.” Nia tapped her nose anxiously and sounded out how the name appeared in her head. “Ves…Vesp…Vespu…” Eric opened his mouth to give her a hint, but she squeezed her eyes shut. “No, no, no, don’t tell me, I wanna figure it out—” then she snapped her fingers and pointed. “Amerigo Vespucci, from Italy.”

Eric gave her an impressed glance. “What founding father became the first U.S. President under the Articles of Confederation?”

“John Hanson.”

“When did he serve?”

“1781 to 1782.”

Eric stopped. “You sure about that?”

Nia looked at him like he was stupid. “Yes.”

“You sure it wasn’t—”

“YES!”

“Good instincts,” Eric nodded, returning to the book, “And the guy after Hanson?”

“Elias Boudinot.”

“When?”

“1782 to 1783.”

“Why did both men only serve a single-year term?”

“Those were the rules according to Article IX of the Articles of Confederation.”

“Who was George Washington?”

“The first President under the U.S. Constitution.”

“Last question,” Eric said with a suspenseful glare, “When did Christopher Columbus land in what would later become the United States?”

Nia was ready. “Trick Question. He didn’t. Most experts believe he landed in Central and South America. And possibly the Caribbean Islands. I’d argue the first to explore North America was Leif Erikson. 10^th century. Left Norway for Greenland, but was blown off course on—”

The front door swung open, and the bell sounded.

Suzanne stepped inside. “Hi, it’s me again. My van won’t start.”

Eric held up a forefinger, then turned to Nia. “Take fifteen, then jump into Math, alright?”

“Okay.” Nia unplugged her headphones from the laptop, retrieved her pink-cased mobile phone from a shelf under the cash register and plopped back down into her seat.

Eric turned to Suzanne. “What’s the issue, Ma’am?”

“When I turn the key, it clicks, then nothing.”

“Sounds like a bad battery.”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Suzanne replied, casually rolling her eyes and later catching a glare from Nia. “It’s the green one out front.”

Eric let the remark slide, figuring it was stress showboating rather than a sour attitude, and followed the lady out to the parking lot. “Hey, Tyrell,” he said once outside, “how’s your—” and then the door shut behind him.

Nia’s eyebrows rose, then dropped when she saw Tyrell Goodman, a friend of her father’s, suddenly appear in the parking lot.

“She’s good, Milty,” Tyrell said, pulling the door open to reveal his dark-skinned, six-foot stature in a pair of blue crocs, faded black basketball shorts and a green sweatshirt. “Going through some family bullshit, but other than that, we good, we good.” He laughed at something Eric said, then looked at Nia behind the counter. He smiled, extended an open palm, then stepped inside the store. “What’s going on, baby girl? You good?”

Nia smiled, then watched him walk through the candy aisle, towering over the top shelf.

Tyrell ventured to the back fridge. “Your mama doing good, Nia?” He took a red Gatorade bottle, then glanced back at the candy aisle.

“She’s sick right now.”

“Yeah, that’s what your dad said, nothing too rough, right?” He grabbed a three-ounce bag of sweet tart gummies, a stick of beef jerky and an eight-ounce bag of Funyuns.     

“She needs the rest. Another couple of days and she’ll be good.”

“Cool, cool,” he said, approaching the counter. His left foot slid a few inches forward on the tile floor, but he caught and steadied himself. “What the—?”

“You good?”

“Yeah. I almost wiped out on the tile.”

“Where?”

Tyrell tossed the items on the counter and lightly stomped the spot. “Here. Feels kinda like someone used a little too much wax.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nia said, remembering, “some toddler blew chunks on that spot earlier. Guess Dad must’ve put too much soap down. What do you think we should do? Throw a little salt on it?”

“Yeah, couldn’t hurt,” Tyrell agreed, then removed a small wad of cash from his sweatshirt pocket. “So when’s your old man gonna let you take over?”

Nia grinned. “What are you talking about? I already run this place.”

Tyrell grinned. “You are your mama’s child.”

“Thanks.” Nia rang him up and bagged the items.

Tyrell gave her a ten-dollar bill, said, “keep the change,” then gave Nia a high-five which effortlessly morphed into a rehearsed handshake that ended with a fist bump. “Stay alert, baby girl, and take care of your old man for me,” he said, then grabbed his bag and left the store, pointing at Eric on the way out.

Nia left the counter, stepped into the backroom, and returned, a moment later, with a yellow SLIPPERY floor sign. She set it next to the slick spot and looked to the entrance. Her dad waved to Tyrell, said something in passing, then returned to the lady’s green minivan.

Her grin slowly dissolved.

She was protective of her father, maybe a tad over-protective. He was a good man, prompt, trusting, and honorable. Most people took what he said and did at face value, then met him halfway, but according to the stories her mother had told her, many did not.

---

“There are three kinds of people, Lonnie,” her mother, Allegra, told her eight months earlier on a weekend trip to New York City. “Vampires, Villagers, and Day-Walkers.” They sat huddled on the back row of the TKTS bleachers while Eric stood in line for tickets to Arachnid: Enter the Light, a rock opera about a nerd turned radioactive crime fighter. None of them cared for the big-showy Broadway musicals. Nia preferred the plays, Allegra too. But when Eric’s childhood friend, Rick Barkley—who understudied multiple roles during its catastrophic twenty-month run—was given the greenlight to play the main villain, they made the trip.

Allegra studied the late-morning crowd, her eyes gravitating to those gathered around the Father Duffy monument where 7^th Ave. and West 47^th St. merged. Tourists mostly, or at least that was she figured from the trendy hand-sign selfies and the captivated stares at the scrolling banners and flashing billboards. “Most are villagers,” she told Nia. “People who prefer a quiet, peaceful life and wanna grow a good family. They’re compassionate, moral, and optimistic about the future. The kind who trust first, get hurt, forgive, and learn from it. They’re decent, they like to see others thrive, and believe their life has purpose. That being said, most villagers are way too trusting and their optimism makes them easy to manipulate. Easy to trick.”

“Manipulated by who?” Nia asked. “Vampires?”

Allegra nodded, then shoved her hands into her jacket. “Ever heard of Edward Bernays?”

Nia thought about it. “Sounds familiar.”

“Sigmund Freud’s nephew. Another mainstream psychotherapist. Emphasis on the psycho, but that’s for another day. Anyways, in the 40s, this corporate aluminum plant was having trouble disposing of a super toxic fluoride by-product.”

“Trouble?”

“Too expensive. So, they hired Bernays, an open propagandist and public relations genius, to normalize the idea of flooding the American water supply with fluoride. And through the use of word magic, trickery, and misdirection, that brilliant vampire convinced the nation that fluoride strengthened teeth. And it worked. It fucking worked.”

“How?”

“Because he knew the average citizen,” Allegra continued, pointing at the crowd, “trusted the television, trusted medical authority, and trusted those with PhD by their names. And psychos like Bernays still exist.”

Nia thought about it. “Are they evil?”

“Some are,” her mother replied, “but most are just highly goal-oriented. They value profits, social status, and secular luxuries over people. They lack empathy and are very comfortable with lying if it means accomplishing their goals. They don’t typically have families. If they do, it’s a shit show because they see people as cattle.”

Nia didn’t respond. She enjoyed these mini-lectures from her mother and only interjected if she needed clarification.

“In a weird way, I have compassion for these psychopaths. They’re not all Patrick Bateman, they’re not all snorting cocaine in between business meetings and killing hookers in their free time. In fact, most of them are dead inside.”

“Really?”

Allegra nodded. “You can’t ascend to the top of the Tower of Babel without first destroying yourself. It’s basically impossible. These ‘wannabe puppet masters’ aren’t having a good time. It may look like they are, they may have all the money in the world, but it’s just a façade. On some level, they’re simply empty, broken vessels, desperately trying to feel whole again. Nothing ever satisfies them. Nothing. These people are not to be envied, Lonnie. They are the definition of envy, that’s why they consented to their Faustian deal in the first place.”

Beyond the Father Duffy statue, just shy of W 46^th St., Allegra saw a bald man with a long dark beard at a red circular table. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt, gray fingerless gloves, and faded jeans. He took a pack of Marlboros from his sweatshirt pocket, pulled one out with his teeth, and lit it. “See that man?” she asked Nia, pointing. “The bearded bald man with the cigarette.”

Nia looked at him. “Yes.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Smoking.”

“And…?”

Nia wiped the front of her glasses with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Watching the crowd?”

Allegra gave a half-nod. “What else?”

Nia studied him. The bald man puffed the cigarette, rose for his chair, and sauntered toward the Duffy monument. His stride was slow and his gaze was fixed on someone. Nia leaned forward and followed his gaze to the bleachers.

Then she saw it.

A man in a wrinkly gray suit leaned against the knobbed railing at the bottom right side of the bleachers. He wore dark shades and had an upside-down fedora at his feet. He raised an arm and coughed into his elbow. He slipped a hand inside his jacket, unfolded a rainbow-colored staff and tapped the pavement by the fedora.

Nia looked at her mother. “Why would a blind man have a colorful staff like that?”

Allegra grinned. “Almost.”

The bearded man now leaned against the Duffy monument, a palm over his mouth and the cigarette between his fingers. He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, then approached the blind man, who turned an ear to him. The two of them spoke. The blind man dabbed the pavement with the stick and said something. The bearded man nodded back, took another drag, then tossed a wad of cash at the blind man’s feet. Not into the fedora. Off to the side.

The blind man jabbed the cash with his staff, then froze.

“Holy shit…” Nia mumbled, then looked at her mom. “Sorry.”

The bald man blew smoke into the air, then glanced at a trio of awestruck women, wrapped in matching red flannel, in line for tickets. He flicked ash at the con man, then left triumphantly in the opposite direction as though he were Jason Statham walking away from an explosion.

Allegra grinned. “That man is a Day-Walker. Dangerous in the eyes of Vampires.”

Nia returned to her mother. “How did he know he was scamming?”

“Pattern Recognition,” her mother replied. “Villagers call it ‘over-thinking.’ Guys like that have lived through so much darkness, and have dealt with so much shit that after a while spotting deception becomes kinda like muscle memory. A superpower almost. Day-Walkers aren’t easily tricked. They don’t adhere to nonsense rules and aren’t afraid of controversy, which is why they’re so loosely labeled as insane. Villagers call them crazy because they’re blind to the con. Vampires call them crazy to shield themselves. Keeping people under spells can be very profitable.”

“So what are we?”

Allegra shrugged. “What do you think?”

Nia nodded. “Dad too?”

“Your father’s good nature has been used against him more than I’d like to admit. When vampires like Mr. Blind see your father, it’s like an internal lightbulb ignites. ‘Why would he lie?’ he asked me when his college roommate pulled him into that Ponzi scheme in ’95. ‘But why would he deceive me? We’ve been friends forever,” he said after I caught an employee stealing money from the cash register in ’03. It’s a good thing I did, or else we might not have the store right now.”     

Nia understood. “So how do we fight them?”

“Just look at them. They can’t see themselves, so when you do, it terrifies them.”

---

Nia closed the cash register and plugged in her earplugs. She scrolled TikTok, chuckled softly at what she saw, then looked to the parking lot. Eric sat in the driver’s seat of the minivan with the door open, his left knee angled out. Suzanne stood nearby with her arms crossed.

The van’s rear lights flickered, then went dark, flickered again, then went out.

Eric hopped out, and popped the hood as the purple-bloused lady climbed inside.

Nia continued scrolling. A male comedian, with a microphone, stood in front of a well-lit red brick wall as wacky-font subtitles flashed across the screen. Nia grinned at the punchline, watched the beginning of the replay, then swiped to the next one.

A brunette lady appeared, ranting about something in a vehicle.

“Not sure if you can tell,” she said, flailing anxious fingers, “but I am literally shaking right now. So, I was in the parking lot, and I am not even joking, I was, uh, I’m sorry, I, uh, I can barely think straight after what just happened in this tiny fucking parking lot. Sorry for cursing, I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I…let me show you.”

Nia scrunched her brow, noting something familiar, then made the connection as the feed panned to the rear window.

The door dinged again. Eric held it open. “When did you last have it replaced?”

Suzanne stepped inside. “Never.”

“How long have you had the van?”

“Four, maybe five years.”

Nia paused the video. “Dad?”

Eric held a finger to Nia but remained on Suzanne. “Corrosion usually means your battery is on its last leg. Or dead already.”

“I thought you said it could be cleaned.”

“Cleaning only works on good batteries.”

“Dad?” Nia asked again.

“Just a moment, sweetie.”

Suzanne nodded. “Okay, so what are my options?”

Eric stepped behind the counter. “Get a new battery.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m not a mechanic, but to the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“Great, okay, so where are your car batteries?”

“We don’t have any.”

Suzanne scrunched her face like she had just bit into a lemon. “On the floor? Or at all?”

“Ma’am, this is a convenience store. We’ve got motor oil, flares, some tire accessories, but other than that, nothing. There’s an auto parts shop about three miles north of here, on Plymouth. They’re open until ten. Plenty of batteries there.” He turned to Nia. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

Nia presented her phone, but Suzanne reclaimed his attention. “And how do I get there?”

Eric shrugged. “Uber, Lyft, I don’t know. You got car insurance?”

The lady nodded. “I do.”

“Great, call them. They’ll tow it.”

“And the tow charge will be, how much you think?”

Eric thought about it. “$75, maybe more.”

Suzanne shook her head. “No, I can’t afford that right now. There’s gotta be another way.”

“You don’t have much of a choice. Without a battery, that’s just a $20,000 paperweight.”

“Do you know how to install a new battery?”

“I do, but I don’t see what that has—”

“How about this? You drive me to the auto shop. I buy a battery, maybe a charger for safe-keeping, then you bring me back, swap them out for me, and I’ll purchase, I don’t know, let’s say, twenty or thirty dollars-worth of snacks from you? How’s that sound?”

“Dad?” Nia asked, her eyes on her phone.

Eric shook his head. “I’m not leaving my daughter in the store by herself.”

“Who said anything about leaving her? She’ll go with us. Just shut everything down for a half-hour or however long you think it may take.”

Nia tugged on the hem of Eric’s long-sleeved t-shirt. “Dad, you really need to see this.”

Eric ignored her. “I’m not closing the shop.”

“I’m only asking for a ride to the auto parts place and back.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Suzanne replied. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“You’re asking me to sacrifice income that puts food in my daughter’s belly and provides medicine for my sick wife, that’s why I’m making a big deal out of this.”

“I just told you I would buy a shit-ton of snacks from you after we got back.”

“I don’t know you, lady, and I’m wise enough to know a con when I hear one. You think you’re the first to ask me for a favor. What’s to keep you from driving away the moment the new battery is installed?”

Suzanne didn’t have an answer. In fact, she was more shell-shocked than offended. Eric had predicted correctly. That was exactly what she had intended to do. She had already purchased pretty much everything she needed, so ‘accidentally’ forgetting her end of the deal and pulling out into the street to never be seen again was pretty fucking on-point. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Eric continued. “We don’t own a car.”

Suzanne was dumbfounded. “You don’t own a car?”

“Call an Uber or have it towed. You’ll be home before you know it.” Eric turned to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Nia, what did you—”

“You don’t have a car?” Suzanne asked, somewhat accusatory. “How? Why?”

“Don’t need one.”

“We walk everywhere, lady,” Nia chimed in, then handed an earbud to her father.

“How is it,” Suzanne asked, “you know how a car operates, but you don’t own one? How? Like…that doesn’t make any sense.”

Eric removed the earbud. “Kinda like how you own a car, but don’t know how it operates.”

Suzanne was taken aback. “So you’re not gonna help me?”

“I already have, Ma’am.”

“Well, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” Suzanne said, half-expecting him to drop what he was doing and help. He didn’t. Instead, he replaced the earbud and knelt down beside her daughter. Shame usually worked on the men around her especially when a crisis revealed itself.

Not him, which confused her. Most men would’ve taken one glance at her protruding lower lip, her mildly robust cleavage, and her wide past-her-prime birthing hips, and gone out of their way to fix her problem.

Not him though.

Suzanne tried to think of something clever to say, but when nothing came to mind, she whispered “Whatever” and left the store.

Eric studied the clip. “How long has this been up?”

“Ten minutes, I think. Twenty-three likes, seven comments.”

“And the comments? Are they bad?”

“What do you think?” Nia asked, then looked at the parking lot through the main entrance. Suzanne was by her minivan, recording herself and gesticulating angrily in their direction.

END OF PART ONE