Chapter 5

At four that afternoon, three grown men in casual street clothes strolled down the alley.

They definitely weren't college students.

They stopped dead in front of my cart, arms crossed, staring me down.

"What can I get you?" I asked evenly.

The bald leader flashed a sinister grin.

"You Lauren Hall?"

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Yes."

"Someone wanted us to tell you to stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Before the last word left his mouth, his heavy boot kicked straight through my folding prep table.

Raw potatoes spilled everywhere. The deep fryer wobbled violently, tipping over and splashing scorching oil across the back of my left hand.

The burn was agonizing.

I bit my lip so hard it bled, refusing to scream.

The other two thugs immediately started tearing my stall apart, flipping counters, smashing condiment bottles on the asphalt, and kicking my cart onto its side.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!"

Miller rushed out from his cheesesteak cart to intervene, but a rough shove sent him flying backward into the wall.

Students screamed, scattering in terror, while a few pulled out their phones to film from a distance.

The bald man crushed the last seasoning jar under his boot heel and dusted off his hands.

"Remember this. Stick your nose in other people's business again, and next time we smash your face."

The three of them sauntered away without a care in the world.

I crouched on the filthy ground, picking up the broken pieces.

The severe oil burn on my hand was already blistering, screaming with throbbing pain at the slightest touch.

A few minutes later, my phone pinged.

A message from Sarah: "Lauren! Look at Twitter! Someone just posted a video claiming you staged the whole attack for clout!"

I clicked the link.

Sure enough, the footage of my cart being trashed had already been uploaded.

The caption claimed the 'crazy fry lady' was desperate for attention after her extortion plot failed, so she hired actors to wreck her own stall.

"This psycho will do anything to go viral."

"So fake it hurts, who trashes a cart in broad daylight?"

"Karma! She tried to shake down sweet Brenda, she deserved this."

However, a few dissenting comments stood out:

"Wait, did you guys even look at her hand?"

"Real or fake, smashing someone's livelihood is crossing a line."

"Yeah, she's still a human being trying to make a living."

"Mommy!"

A weak, fragile voice called out from behind me.

I snapped around.

Toby was standing ten feet away, dressed in a faded hospital gown, his face deathly pale and his hair soaked in cold sweat.

"Toby?! How did you get out here?!"

He stumbled toward me, freezing in horror at the shattered glass and spilled oil all over the ground.

"Mommy... your cart..."

"It's okay, baby. Mommy's okay, I promise."

"I don't want the surgery anymore!"

He suddenly burst into hysterics, his voice shrill and breaking.

"I don't want people hurting you anymore! Mommy, let's go home, stop selling fries, I don't need the doctor..."

He threw his tiny arms around my legs, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.

"Mommy, please don't die! Don't let them kill you, please..."

I sank to my knees and wrapped him tightly in my arms.

The tears finally broke through the dam.

It was the very first time I had cried since waking up in this second life.

I sobbed until my entire body shook, so choked up I couldn't form words.

But I only allowed myself thirty seconds of weakness.

Drawing in a ragged breath, I wiped my tears, cupping his tiny, feverish face in my hands.

"Toby, look at Mommy."

He hiccuped, staring at me with red, terrified eyes.

"Mommy isn't going to lose this time."

"You have to be a brave boy and go back to the hospital, okay?"

"Mommy swears to you, I will get the money. I promise."

Toby nodded through his tears.

Sarah came sprinting down the block, out of breath.

"Lauren! I... I'll watch what's left of your cart. Take him back to the pediatric ward right now!"

I scooped Toby up into my arms, the severe burn on my hand oozing blood and fluid against his gown.

As I rushed past the curb, I saw Professor Vance standing by the lamppost.

The biology professor adjusted his spectacles, silently looking from my demolished food cart to the frail, sick child clutched against my chest.

He didn't utter a word.

But out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out his smartphone and quietly take several close-up photos of the broken bottles and the crime scene.