William Parker lowered his head to look at the injured boy, and in that instant when their eyes met, a chill ran down his spine. The boy's gaze seemed to accuse him—accuse him of being the lucky one who escaped death, while he became the substitute to die in his place.
William Parker was so terrified by that look that his legs nearly gave out. He grabbed Brandon's arm tightly and said, "Let's go!"
Brandon, recalling what William had said earlier, didn't dare say anything. He pulled William along as they ran. When they reached a flowerbed, William tugged Brandon down beside it, pinched his own arm hard, felt the sting of pain, and finally gasped for breath.
"Damn, I just saw a ghost!"
The two stared at each other. Brandon swallowed nervously and murmured, "William, you must've met someone extraordinary… a real master!" A mysterious, powerful person—someone who could see fate itself.
William was still shaken, his emotions not yet settled. After a moment, he nodded slowly, grabbed Brandon's hand, and said, "I have to find her. I need to thank that woman in person!"
—
Summer Watson didn't know that a single sentence she had spoken had just changed a boy's destiny.
She followed Harold Watson on foot through the noisy, run-down slums of the city. The houses were crammed tightly together, some of their walls cracked and about to collapse, with bright red Danger signs posted below.
The people living here had long been waiting for the government to demolish these buildings, but years passed, and while skyscrapers rose nearby, their own world remained unchanged.
Harold said quietly, "After they took you away, I moved out of the old house." He hadn't dared stay there anymore; every corner was filled with memories of Summer, and just looking at them broke his heart.
Summer took his arm and walked slowly beside him.
Harold led her into a narrow alley, pointing ahead. "Our place is in this lane. Remember—it's number 9."
"Got it."
The sunlight was blocked by tall buildings, and the alley was dim and cold.
When Summer looked up, she saw a tangled mess of electrical wires hanging overhead, like a net enclosing the people below—people trapped inside, able to see the prosperity beyond but never able to reach it.
Where there is heaven, there is also hell.
"We're here," Harold said, stopping before a rusty iron gate. "This place is rented. It's on the second floor. It's small—you might not be used to it."
"It's fine," Summer replied. Even if all she had was an old sack, she could curl up and sleep in it. She had long grown used to hardship.
Harold unlocked the gate, and Summer followed him into a small courtyard. A row of electric scooters stood charging in one corner, and next to them was a three-wheeled delivery cart. Summer frowned slightly, realizing the area was a major fire hazard.
She silently made a note—she would find a way to get her father a safer home.
The staircase to the second floor was narrow. When Summer tried to help Harold up, he refused. "I can manage."
He climbed up steadily, leaning on his cane, then took out his keys and opened the door. "Come in."
The moment Summer stepped inside, she was startled.
The apartment was tiny. To the left was a cramped kitchen and dining space—no living room, no balcony, just a small bay window. To the right was the bathroom, with the bedroom directly next to the dining area.
It was so small that a fart in the bedroom could be heard in the kitchen.
Summer had known her father lived frugally, but she hadn't imagined it would be this hard.
Harold, noticing her silence, looked uneasy. He feared he'd see disgust or pity on her face.
But Summer's expression remained calm, gentle.
Harold sighed in relief. "There's only one bedroom. I'll move my things out later. I'll sleep on the bay window tonight—you can take the room."
That "bay window" was actually a clothes-drying ledge; if he slept there, he'd have to curl up tightly to fit.
"Dad, you're not in good health. You should sleep in the room. I can take the window ledge," Summer insisted.
"No," Harold said firmly. "You're a young woman. You need your own room. I'm used to rough living—I can sleep anywhere. Besides, you'll be going back to school soon. You'll need a quiet place to study. Listen to me—you take the room."
Seeing that his mind was set, Summer gave in.
As evening fell, Harold worried she might be hungry, so he decided to cook her something before tidying up the house. When Summer tried to help, he waved her off. "You can't get oil on your face yet. Go wait in the room."
"…Alright."
Summer went to shower but quickly realized she didn't have clean clothes. She stepped to the kitchen doorway and asked, "Dad, is there a mall nearby? I want to buy a few sets of clothes."
"There is," Harold said. "I'll take you after dinner."
Summer noticed how he leaned on the counter to chop vegetables, moving slowly with the help of his cane. The sight made her chest ache. She took the knife from his hand. "Dad, today's our reunion day. Let me take you out for dinner instead."
Knowing how frugal he was, she added quickly, "There's that Imperial Feast Restaurant nearby, right? I'm a member there. I get one free meal every month. It'd be a waste not to use it."
She only said that to ease his mind.
When Harold heard "free meal," his eyes lit up. "The Imperial Feast Restaurant? That's famous! Their fish skin is the young master's favorite…"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Young master?
Summer raised an eyebrow. "Dad, did you work for a rich family when you were younger?"
Harold's eyes clouded with sorrow. After a long pause, he shook his head and sighed. "That was a long time ago. I barely remember anymore." He clearly didn't want to talk about it, and Summer didn't press.
"I'll change my clothes," Harold said, retreating to his room. When he came out, he was wearing a light gray shirt and black slacks—clean, but obviously old and ill-fitting.
The restaurant was about twenty minutes away by car. Summer suggested taking a taxi, but Harold shook his head. "I've got a tricycle. I use it to sell snacks in the market. We can take that."
Then, realizing it might embarrass her, he frowned. "No, never mind. You're a celebrity now. If someone saw you riding a tricycle, the internet would mock you."
But Summer just looked at the tricycle parked in the yard and smiled. "It's fine, Dad. It keeps the wind off and the rain out. Let's take it."
After all, she had survived two hundred years in a post-apocalyptic world—there was no vehicle she couldn't handle.