I couldn’t afford to lose that job. My mother worked nights at a nursing facility in Harlem, and her hours had been cut again after budget reductions. My younger brother, Liam, needed medication for a chronic heart condition, and insurance only covered part of it. The rest came from my deliveries — sixty hours a week biking meals across borough lines, chasing five-star ratings and avoiding traffic that didn’t care whether I lived or died.
The final notification buzzed as I turned onto Lexington Avenue.
Deliver within 10 minutes or account termination will be automatic.
I pedaled harder. My thighs burned. Rain blinded me. I was calculating distance, traffic patterns, shortcuts I had memorized like scripture. Then something at the edge of the curb caught my eye — not trash, not debris, but a shape too deliberate to ignore.
A boy lay crumpled beside a lamppost, half in the gutter, half on the sidewalk. His blazer — expensive, private-school crest stitched into the breast pocket — was soaked black with rain. His arms were limp. His head lolled to one side as water streamed over his face.
People rushed past him.
A taxi splashed a wave across his legs.
No one stopped.
