Chapter 1

The rain was coming down hard, making the streets slick. My bike' s old tires fought for grip as I pedaled faster, the QuickEats bag heavy on my back. Another late night, another rush delivery. This one was for a cheap motel on the edge of town, the kind with flickering neon signs and hourly rates. Condoms. On Valentine' s Day. Classy.

I found Room 12, the paint peeling around the door. I knocked.

A guy, Kevin, yanked the door open, already scowling. He was young, maybe early twenties, with a mean look in his eyes. A girl, Tiffany, peeked out from behind him, blonde hair messy.

"You're late," Kevin snapped, snatching the small paper bag.

"Sorry, the weather, and traffic was bad," I said, trying to keep my voice even. My QuickEats app already showed I was ten minutes past the estimate.

"Bad? You ruined our night, man," he sneered. Tiffany giggled. "Our special Valentine's night. Now what are we supposed to do?"

I just wanted to get paid and leave. "That'll be five-sixty."

Kevin crossed his arms. "I don't think so. You being late cost us. This room isn't cheap, you know." He gestured around the dingy room. "And now, emotional distress. Big time."

"Emotional distress?" I asked, my patience thinning.

"Yeah," Tiffany chimed in, stepping forward. "We were in the mood. You killed it."

Kevin' s eyes narrowed. "So, here's the deal. You cover the room for tonight, say, fifty bucks, and another fifty for the, uh, inconvenience. Or I give QuickEats a one-star review that says you were rude, you smelled, and you tampered with the package."

My stomach dropped. A review like that could get me deactivated. I needed this gig. It was all I had. "Fifty bucks? I don't have that."

"Then a hundred," Kevin said, a nasty smile spreading on his face. "For everything."

I looked at them, their entitled faces, the cheap motel room. I was tired of people like this, always trying to game the system, always stepping on the little guy. But I was trapped.

"Fine," I said, pulling out my worn wallet. I counted out the cash I had, mostly small bills from tips. It was almost everything I' d made that day. I handed it over. Eighty-seven dollars.

Kevin counted it slowly. "Close enough. Now get out."

He slammed the door in my face.

I stood there for a moment, the rain still beating down. I felt sick. I checked my app. Sure enough, a notification popped up. "Customer Kevin M. has left a review: 1 Star. Driver was late, rude, and item was damaged."

My earnings for the week instantly showed a deduction for "customer complaint resolution." My rating plummeted. Another one like this, and I' d be looking for a new way to starve.

The ride to Sarah Jenkins' small house felt longer than usual. The old youth center she used to run next door was boarded up now, a casualty of city budget cuts and, as I'd later learn, other, more sinister dealings. She was the closest thing I' d ever had to a mother. She took me in when I was a teenager aging out of the foster system, gave me a home when no one else would.

The light was on in her kitchen. She opened the door before I even knocked, a warm smile on her kind, wrinkled face.

"Alex, you're soaked! Come in, come in."

The warmth of her small kitchen enveloped me. She always had something cooking, or tea brewing. Tonight, it was soup.

"Rough night?" she asked gently, already ladling some into a bowl for me.

I didn't want to burden her, but the story spilled out – the motel, Kevin and Tiffany, the extortion, the bad review.

She listened patiently, her brow furrowed with concern. "Oh, Alex. Those awful people. That' s just robbery."

"It' s how it is, Sarah," I said, shrugging, trying to sound tougher than I felt. "Just gotta roll with it."

"No, you don't," she said, her voice firm. She went to a small tin box she kept on a high shelf. "Here." She pulled out a wad of cash. "Take this. You need it more than I do."

I knew that money. It was her "Michael fund." Michael was her son, lost to the foster care system decades ago after a bad marriage and worse luck. All she had of him was a faded photograph of a smiling little boy with her, his arm around her neck. She' d been saving for years, hoping to hire a private investigator, to find him somehow.

"No, Sarah, I can't," I said, pushing the money away. "That's for Michael."

"Michael would want me to help you," she insisted. "You're like a son to me too, you know that."

I shook my head, my throat tight. "I'll manage. I always do." I forced a smile. "Besides, maybe this bad review will blow over."

She sighed, putting the money back, but her eyes were still worried. "You work too hard, Alex, for too little, and for people who don't appreciate you."

Later, as I was getting ready to leave, she pressed a folded twenty into my hand. "For gas, at least. Don't argue."

I took it, feeling a familiar mix of gratitude and guilt.

As I was about to step out, my eye caught the old photo on her mantelpiece – Sarah, younger, beaming, with little Michael. I picked it up. He had her eyes.

"He looks like a good kid," I said.

Sarah came over, her gaze soft. "He was. He is. Somewhere."

I carefully placed the photo back. An idea, vague and unformed, flickered in my mind. Maybe there was a way to fight back, not just for me, but for Sarah too. But first, I had to survive the next QuickEats shift.