Chapter 3: The Boy at the Repair Shop

Clara's POV

By the time I reached the second block, my shoes were soaked through, each step making a soft, wet squeak against the pavement. But I was past caring.

I just kept walking.

My suitcase wheel caught on every crack in the sidewalk, and I had to yank it forward every few steps.

The phone's GPS said Maple Street was two blocks ahead.

The closer I got, the faster my heart beat.

I was almost there.

And suddenly, I was terrified.

What if Grandma Irene didn't want me?

What if she looked at me and saw a stranger instead of family?

Where would I go tonight if this didn't work out?

I gripped my backpack straps tightly and kept walking. A voice, rough and unpleasantly familiar, cut through my worries.

"Where's the money?! You better start talking right now!"

The sound was coming from the auto repair shop I'd just passed—a low concrete building with a half-open roll-up door, the kind of place that looked like it had been falling apart for years and had just accepted it.

Through the gap in the door, I could see the inside. Bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Oil stains on the floor. A workbench along the far wall covered in tools and engine parts.

And four men.

Three of them were big—the kind of big that takes up space on purpose. The fourth was a teenager.

He was backed against the workbench with nowhere to go. Tall, maybe six feet, wearing a soaked black hoodie that clung to his shoulders.

His expression didn't change. His fists tightened at his sides, then slowly unclenched.

I should keep walking. But then the boy noticed me. His eyes met mine for a brief second before he quickly looked away.

I caught a glimpse of his pale blue eyes.

And for some reason, I stopped.

Not because I trusted him.

Because I recognized that look.

That emptiness.

The kind that didn't come from having nothing. The kind that came from losing too much.

Like me.

The man in front—the one who'd been shouting, with a scar running from his jaw to his cheekbone—grabbed the teenager by the collar and shoved him hard into the workbench.

The metal edge caught him across the back, and I heard the impact even from where I was standing.

"Your old man borrowed money he couldn't pay back," the man said, his voice dropping into something colder and more deliberate. "That's not our problem. That's yours. You think hiding in this dump means we forget about it?"

He reached up, grabbed the man's wrist, and forced his hand away from his collar.

"I told you I'd handle it," he said. His voice was low and even. "I just need time."

My grip tightened on Mom's letter.

I'd seen debt collectors before. Real ones, from a licensed agency, the kind that showed up in button-down shirts and left paper trails. They didn't put their hands on you. They didn't show up in the rain at night.

Whatever this was, it wasn't legal. The aggression was wrong, the hour was wrong, the whole thing was wrong.

I thought about calling 911. And then I thought about what happened after that. Police asking for ID, asking where I lived, asking why a sixteen-year-old was alone in the rain.

I couldn't call the police. They'd send me back. And even if they didn't, they would drag Grandma Irene into this. They would make her responsible for me before she even had a choice.

My phone was already in my hand. I'd pulled it out without realizing.

I looked at the screen. Then I stepped back under the overhang of the house next door and opened YouTube.

Police siren sound effect.

The first result was five minutes long. I turned the volume all the way up, thumb hovering over the play button.

I took a breath.

I hit play—keeping the volume low at first, letting it build.

I kept moving it, angling it so the sound bounced off the wall behind me.

In the rain, they couldn't tell how close it was. They couldn't tell which direction it was coming from.

Inside the shop, everything stopped.

Scar-face turned his head. One of the other men took a step toward the door, and I ducked back behind the corner of the house, pressing my back against the siding, heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my throat.

"The hell—" one of them muttered.

"Sounds like it's coming from Route 9," another one said.

A long pause. I could hear the rain and my own pulse and the siren cycling through its loop on my phone, and I didn't breathe.

Then: "Move. Let's go."

Scar-face's voice, clipped and furious. "This isn't over," he said, and I knew he wasn't talking to his crew. "You got lucky tonight, kid. Next time you better have something ready for me."

Footsteps. The sound of a car door. An engine turning over, tires spinning on wet asphalt, and then the growl of the truck fading down the road until I couldn't hear it anymore.

I let out a breath so long it left me dizzy.

My legs were shaking. I noticed that now—both of them, a fine tremor I couldn't stop.

I pressed one hand flat against the siding and waited until the worst of it passed, then looked down at my phone. The siren was still playing. I stopped it.

The street was quiet again except for the rain.

Okay. That was over.

I grabbed my suitcase handle and turned around.

A hand closed around my wrist.

My whole body went still.

For one terrifying second, I was back in that apartment.

The grip loosened immediately.

I looked up suddenly. It was him.

His pale blue eyes were locked on mine.

We stood there in the rain, neither of us moving.

The longer I looked up at him, the more the rain slipped into my eyes, blurring everything around me.

I lowered my head and wiped the rain from my face.

Then he spoke.

"Mind your own business."

I froze.

What?