Chapter 2

Joanna's eyes instantly lit up.

"Awesome!"

She adjusted her position and told her assistant, whom she called Jessica, to crank the ring light to its highest setting so that its harsh white light hit me square in the face.

She made a quick gesture toward the camera, then turned back to me with a dazzling smile.

"Since you don't consider yourself a failure, why don't you share a little about yourself with everyone? How much do you make a month? Care to show everyone your pay stub?"

Demanding a pay stub right out of the gate? The live chat loved that.

[Hilarious! She's trying to kill him!]

[I'll guess… 1,500 dollars!]

[1,400 dollars!]

[1,300 dollars. Max.]

[Show the stub! Show the stub!]

[She's savage! Straight for the jugular!]

I tossed the piece of tape into the trash bin and looked at her. "You want to know how much I make?"

Then, I turned the question on her, catching her completely off guard. "And how much do you make?"

She blinked, then gave a confident laugh. "I took home 43 thousand dollars last month, counting ad revenue and sponsorships."

She lowered her phone slightly and tilted her chin up at me. "How about you?"

The comments were flooded with messages like "She's the boss!" and "Talk about embarrassing yourself!" until nothing else was visible.

I nodded. "I make enough to live on. I'd rather not share the exact number."

"Guys, he says he'd rather not tell us," she said, dragging out the last syllable, as if she'd just caught a smoking gun.

She turned back toward the camera. "Translation—he's too ashamed to say it!"

The comments went wild.

[If you know, you know.]

[An 'I'd rather not share' from a broke-ass dude.]

[It's 1,400 dollars. He's just ashamed to admit it.]

Joanna strutted over to the glass door, where a printed sheet of paper was taped to it. She shoved the camera right up against it and started reading every single word out loud.

"Help Wanted: Overnight store clerk. Monthly salary: 1,400-1,800 dollars. Housing provided. Meals not included."

Once she finished reading, she turned back to me with the pitying expression of someone who'd just done the math for you and found the answer depressing.

"1,800 dollars. The ceiling is 1,800 dollars. Do you know how much a decent wedding costs these days?"

After a pause, she answered her own question. "Your entire year's salary."

[Thinking about marriage on a 1,800-dollar salary?]

[He won't even be able to afford wedding photos!]

[What woman would be stupid enough to marry him?]

[Seriously, don't ruin someone else's life.]

[People like this don't deserve to have kids.]

A chuckle escaped me. I pointed at the shelves and the store sign behind me.

"Let me put it this way. This store belongs to my family. Do you really think I can't afford a wedding?"

Joanna's expression stiffened for a second, but she recovered quickly and tilted her head.

Then, using a tone that suggested, "Fine. I'll play along with your little game, but you're a terrible actor", she said, "That wasn't what I was suggesting. But… what convenience store owner would personally work the overnight shift? And at 2:00 am, no less?"

The comments exploded yet again.

[LMAO! Busted on the spot!]

[There goes his "I'm the owner" act.]

[Even if he's the owner, he'd still be barely making 5,000 a month.]

[He's fronting way too hard.]

[She gave him an out, and he still wouldn't take it.]

Having found her rhythm again, she began circling me. She stopped next to the counter, bent down, and picked up the container from the sandwich I'd just finished and tossed in the trash. She held it up to the camera, flipped it over, and pointed to the line right below the best-by date.

"Clearance item. Please consume before the best-by date."

She looked at me, and in the tone of someone who'd just uncovered brand-new evidence, she asked, "So, Mr. 'This Store Belongs to My Family', do you usually eat food that's past its best-by date?"

The floodgates opened in the chat.

[A store owner eating clearance food.]

[The working-class budget version of a boss.]

[Clearance-food warrior!]

[Expired-food cleanup crew.]

[Even my grandma won't eat clearance food.]

[His 'I'm the owner' act fell apart in one second.]

She tossed the container back into the trash and turned to me. "Be honest. Do you really think anyone buys that you're the owner?"

[Hell no.]

[The owner eating clearance food? Hilarious!]

[He's more stubborn than the packaging on the expired sandwich!]

I took a step toward the counter—not toward her, but straight toward the camera—and looked straight into the phone that currently had 950 thousand people watching live.

"From the moment you set foot into the store, you've dug through the trash, intruded into the stockroom, and touched my personal belongings without once asking if you could do so.

"You're not making a show.. You're using a convenience store clerk as a target. You're trying to provoke me, push me to lose my temper, then cut it into a video for views."

The comments started splitting into two parties.

[He's right. She never asked.]

[Going through the trash is a bit too much.]

[His logic is super sharp.]

[All that talk and so what? He's still broke, isn't he?]

The corner of Joanna's mouth twitched, and she immediately raised her voice.

"Isn't that a little dramatic? I'm just helping viewers understand how people at the bottom really survive. Why are you—"

"You need me to lose it," I interrupted her.

My voice wasn't loud, but the rest of her sentence died in her throat.

"You need me to cry, smash things, get on my knees, and beg you to end the live stream. A video like that could get you another 200 thousand followers."

[Goodness gracious! He actually said it out loud!]

[He sees right through her!]

[She's turning red.]

[Everything he said is right.]

[Who the heck is this guy?]

Joanna's expression changed. It wasn't anger from being called out, but a total loss of control. The narrative rhythm she'd prided herself on had been dismantled bit by bit.

She glanced back at Jessica, then checked the viewer count—730 thousand and still dropping. Biting her lip, she forced a bright smile at the camera.

"Everyone, that's it for tonight's 'Street Unfiltered!'"

She walked to the door, stopped, and looked back. "What's your name?"

I didn't turn around. I crouched down and went back to opening boxes.

"Louis O'Donnell."

The taillights of the black van soon disappeared around the corner.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, scanned it, paid a dollar and 20 cents, then sat on the metal bunk in the stockroom while I finished drinking it.

At 4:30 am, the store owner, George Salinger, came to take over.

"Go home and get some sleep. Did anyone give you any trouble last night?"

I shook my head, signed the timesheet, changed out of my uniform, and pulled a Patek Philippe from the inner compartment of my backpack.

As I walked out the door, my phone buzzed.

"Dad," I answered.

My father's voice was low, but it wasn't from anger. It was more the tone of someone confirming intelligence right before a battle.

"Wendell called me. He said some streamer cornered you at the store and bugged you for more than half an hour. The video is already trending, and the comments are tearing you apart. It's ugly."

I lit a cigarette and crouched on the curb outside the convenience store.

Dad went silent for a few seconds. "I can have Wendell get PR on it, have the video scrubbed off the internet, and get the streamer's account banned while we're at it. It'll only take one phone call."

I flicked the ash from my cigarette.

"There's no hurry."