Chapter 1

The day of my divorce, I got hit by a car.

When I woke up, everyone had a line of text floating above their heads.

The nurse: [27 years old, eight years from now, breast cancer.]

I picked up my phone. The first contact was my ex-wife, Vivian.

After a second of hesitation, I opened her social media.

Her latest post showed her and her new boyfriend in the Maldives, captioned "The rest of my life with you."

The location showed it was posted three hours ago.

Our divorce papers had been finalized just yesterday.

My daughter sent me a voice message: "Dad, Mom says I can't go to her new house anymore. That man doesn't like kids."

Gripping my phone, I went to pick up my daughter and ran into my ex-father-in-law, Robert Miller, at the entrance to the complex.

Above his head, it read: [62 years old, three months from now, gas poisoning.]

The moment he saw me, he started cursing: "Useless piece of trash! My daughter should've divorced you years ago!"

"My daughter's new boyfriend is young and handsome, and he's a wealthy heir. What the hell are you?"

I glanced at the text above his head and deleted the warning message I'd typed out, character by character.

Then I took my daughter's hand.

"Come on, sweetheart. Dad's taking you for pizza."

1

At the pizza place, my daughter Lily handed me a slice.

"Dad, you eat it. You've gotten so skinny."

She was only six years old, but she'd already learned to read adults' faces.

I bought her a Coke. My phone buzzed again.

Vivian sent a text: "Figure out Lily's tuition yourself. I need to pay off the loan on my new car."

But she had money for plane tickets to the Maldives.

I didn't reply. I just flipped my phone face-down on the table.

Lily asked quietly, "Dad, does Mom not want us anymore?"

"Mom just doesn't want Dad anymore. She'll always be your mom."

Even as I said it, the words felt hollow.

What kind of mother wouldn't even pay for her daughter's tuition?

Halfway through the meal, my phone rang again.

This time it was Robert.

I answered, and he immediately launched into a tirade.

"Listen here, Lucas Gray. My daughter letting you walk away with nothing was being generous!"

"The house is in my name. Don't think you're getting a cent!"

"And Lily—don't send her to our family! We're not raising her for you!"

He ranted for a full three minutes.

I didn't say a word back.

Because all I could think about was that line of text above his head.

62 years old, three months from now, gas poisoning.

"What, are you mute?" Robert shouted into the phone.

"Yeah. I've gone mute."

I hung up.

Lily had finished all her pizza. Her hands were greasy, and she was wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Dad, did Mr. Miller yell at you again?"

"No, sweetheart. He said he misses you."

Lily tilted her head, thinking. "But last time Mr. Miller said I was a waste of money."

A six-year-old. She remembered everything.

I paid the bill and walked Lily home, holding her hand.

My phone pinged with a notification from the delivery app. The courier account I'd registered yesterday had been approved.

Starting tomorrow, I'd be a delivery driver.

Security guard wages were too low, and factory shift work was too rigid—I wouldn't be able to pick Lily up from school.

Delivery work was the only option. Flexible hours, and the more I worked, the more I earned.

Back at our rental apartment, Lily fell asleep quickly.

I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through my phone's photo album.

There were still pictures from our wedding.

Vivian in her rented wedding dress, smiling brightly.

Back then she'd said, "Lucas, we're definitely going to have a good life together."

Seven years of marriage.

The hard times finally ended—and she left.

I deleted every photo of Vivian from the album.

Not a single one left.

Then I opened the delivery app and checked tomorrow's weather forecast.

Light rain.

Rainy days meant more orders. Time to hustle.

On my first day as a delivery driver, I witnessed the full spectrum of humanity in this city.

I left at seven in the morning after dropping Lily off at kindergarten.

At the entrance, Lily clung to the hem of my jacket and wouldn't let go.

"Dad, can you pick me up this afternoon?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Dad promises."

I rode my electric scooter to the commercial district and started accepting orders.

The first delivery was an Americano for an office worker in a high-rise.

When I handed it to her, she didn't even look up. She grabbed the coffee and shut the door.

Above her head, it read: [29 years old, twelve years from now, liver cancer.]

I bit my lip and said nothing.

This wasn't something I could control. Nor should I.

2

During the lunch rush, I completed twelve orders in a row.

My legs were sore. I sat on the curb, eating bread.

My phone buzzed with a news alert: Renowned businesswoman Sophia Quinn dies of organ failure at age 69.

Sophia Quinn.

That name was all too familiar.

In high school, her granddaughter had been my classmate. Once, she'd invited me to her house, and I'd seen her grandmother.

I told her she had eight hours left.

She lasted exactly eight hours.

Afterward, Sophia gave me five million dollars.

That money paid for my college education and made me believe my life was finally turning around.

Then, the second year after graduation, I married Vivian.

A woman from a small mountain village who'd clawed her way out and was determined to climb higher.

The first time Robert met me, he asked, "How many properties does your family own?"

I said none.

The smile faded from his face.

But back then, Vivian had said, "Robert, Lucas treats me well, and he has capital. That's enough."

Was it enough?

Seven years of marriage. I spent every cent of Sophia's five million dollars on Vivian's graduate school, Vivian's startup, Vivian's luxury car to keep up appearances.

Five million dollars. Gone without a trace.

What did I get in return? A Maldives Instagram post saying "The rest of my life with you" to another man.

At two in the afternoon, my phone rang.

It was Vivian.

"Just letting you know—I'm pregnant. Expenses are high, so I won't be giving you a cent of child support for Lily anymore."

Pregnant.

We'd been divorced less than a week, and she was pregnant.

No need to calculate when this baby was conceived.

"Vivian, you cheated during our marriage."

"Don't make it sound so ugly. Caleb and I didn't officially get together until after you moved out."

Caleb. That was her young new boyfriend.

Her tone was calm as she said this.

I didn't hang up.

I was waiting for her to say something—anything—about Lily.

Even just asking "How's Lily doing lately?" would've been enough.

She didn't ask.

After telling me she was pregnant, she hung up.

I set my phone down.

The rain had stopped. Sunlight broke through the clouds and shone on my soaked courier uniform.

I stood up. Time to keep working.

On my third day of deliveries, I received a strange order.

The address was an upscale complex in the the Southside. The notes said: Please ring the doorbell three times. Do not knock.

I rang the doorbell three times.

The door opened. A woman in her forties appeared.

She wore a silk nightgown and a pearl necklace.

As she reached for the food, I accidentally glanced up.

The text above her head made me freeze.

[45 years old, two days from now, strangled to death by husband.]

My hand jerked. I nearly dropped the bag.

"What's wrong?" She looked at me.

"Nothing."

I handed her the food and turned to leave.

After two steps, I stopped.

"Um—" I turned back.

The woman was still standing in the doorway, rummaging through the bag.

"Does your husband treat you well?"

She looked up, her eyes guarded.

"Why are you asking that?"

"No reason. Just wondering. Please... be careful."

I got on my scooter and left.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept thinking about that woman's face.

There was a faint bruise on her face, covered with foundation. But I'd been close enough during the delivery to see it.

The next day, I received another order to the same address.

Same person.

This time when she opened the door, there was a fresh cut on her face, running from her brow to her temple.

The text above her head had changed.

[45 years old, one day from now, strangled to death by husband.]

I handed her the food. My grip was tight.

"Ma'am, you need to call the police."

"Call them for what?" Her voice was soft.

"Your husband hit you, didn't he?"

She looked at me for a moment, then shut the door.

I stood outside and heard a man's voice from inside: "Who was it?"

"Delivery," she said.

"Don't order delivery anymore. I'll cook for you." The man's voice sounded gentle.

I got on my scooter and sat outside the complex entrance for ten minutes.

Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 91