Chapter 2

"Hello, 14 Maple Gardens, Building 302, the Southside. There's domestic violence happening. The woman has head injuries."

"Are you the victim?"

"No, I'm a delivery driver. I saw it."

"Understood. We'll send someone to investigate."

I didn't know if the police could change anything.

But the text said "one day from now."

I had to do something.

3

The next day at noon, I saw a local news headline while scrolling—

"Man at Maple Gardens, The Southside, Detained for Domestic Violence. Woman Sent to Hospital for Treatment."

She didn't die.

The text above her head must have changed.

I wasn't certain—I couldn't see the text of people in news articles.

But she was alive.

That was enough.

That day, I completed eight extra deliveries.

Earned enough for a week's worth of Lily's living expenses.

On my fifteenth day of deliveries, Robert blocked me outside Vivian's complex.

He stood in front of my scooter.

"Lucas Gray, have you no shame? Vivian says you're demanding three thousand dollars a month in child support?"

"The court ordered it."

"Court or no court, you're just a delivery driver. Does raising a kid really cost three thousand?"

"Vivian's pregnant, and Caleb's expenses are high. Can't you ask for less?"

I looked at the text above his head.

Still the same line.

[62 years old, two and a half months from now, gas poisoning.]

The countdown was ticking closer every day.

"Vivian—" her voice came from behind.

She walked out of the complex with a tall, stylishly dressed young man beside her.

That was Caleb.

My first time seeing him.

He wore designer streetwear, limited-edition sneakers, and his hair was perfectly styled.

Above his head: [26 years old, four years from now, car accident.]

When Vivian saw me, she hesitated.

"What are you doing here?"

"Picking up Lily's things. She left some clothes at your place."

Vivian frowned and said to Caleb, "Wait for me in the car."

Caleb didn't move. He looked me up and down and sneered.

"So this is your ex-husband? He looks pretty rough. No wonder you weren't into him."

He was five years younger than me, with the spoiled attitude of a trust fund kid.

I wasn't interested in arguing with him.

Vivian tossed me a plastic bag.

Inside were three of Lily's old outfits and a stuffed bunny missing an ear.

It was Lily's favorite toy. Robert had cut off the ear.

He'd said girls shouldn't play with such delicate things—it made them weak.

Lily had been only four years old then.

She'd cried for an entire afternoon.

I took the bag and turned to leave. Robert spoke up again.

"Lucas Gray, stop right there. Let's settle this child support matter."

"The court ordered three thousand. You pay three thousand."

"Three thousand? Why don't you just rob us? Vivian's expecting now, and Caleb needs to invest in—"

"That's your family's problem."

Robert started cursing again.

"Let me tell you something—my daughter's money is our family's money. You, an outsider, don't get a cent!"

I didn't respond.

I hung the plastic bag on my handlebars and started my scooter.

Robert kept shouting behind me.

Caleb stood off to the side, playing with his phone, completely indifferent.

Vivian didn't say a single word in my defense.

Not one.

That night, Lily fell asleep hugging the one-eared bunny.

I sat by the window and counted this month's earnings.

Fifteen days of deliveries: forty-eight hundred dollars.

Subtract fifteen hundred for rent, twelve hundred for Lily's kindergarten tuition, a thousand for food, scooter charging fees, phone bill.

One hundred and ten dollars left.

One hundred and ten dollars.

That was the total balance my daughter and I had left in this city.

My phone buzzed.

Vivian sent a text: "I'll be a few days late with this month's child support. Caleb's got his eye on a watch, so I need to buy it for him first."

I put my phone under my pillow.

Didn't reply.

4

I stared at the long crack in the ceiling and made a decision.

I couldn't let this ability go to waste.

Years ago, Sophia had given me five million dollars for one reading.

How many people in this city wanted to know how they'd die?

How many would pay to change their fate?

I was done playing the saint.

I was going to use these eyes to support my daughter and me.

I spent three days working out a plan.

I couldn't just tell people how they'd die like I did as a kid.

Too scary. Too risky.

I registered a short video account called "Delivery Guy Talks Health."

The concept was simple: every day, I'd film a segment about real encounters I had while delivering food.

Of course, I changed all the details.

My first video: "Today I delivered to a woman with bruises on her face. Let's talk about how to seek help if you're experiencing domestic violence."

Combined with the news story from Maple Gardens, the video got over fifty thousand views.

I didn't mention anything supernatural.

I just talked about the people I "saw," then packaged it as common sense.

...

Two weeks later, I delivered a three-hundred-dollar order to an office building downtown.

A three-hundred-dollar delivery. I'd never seen that before.

When I opened it, it was afternoon tea for an entire office floor.

The receptionist told me to leave it on the desk.

As I was unloading the boxes, the conference room door was open.

Inside sat a circle of people.

At the center was a man in his early forties, wearing a sharp suit with a commanding presence.

Above his head: [43 years old, one year from now, cerebral hemorrhage.]

Next to him stood a little boy, about four or five years old, playing on an iPad.

Above the boy's head: [5 years old, today, anaphylactic shock.]

Today.

I set down the box and glanced at the order notes: [Nut allergy. All items must be nut-free.]

The order had been placed by the receptionist.

I opened one of the cake boxes and checked the ingredients list.

Almond flour.

"Hey, that cake—"

The receptionist had already grabbed a box and was heading toward the conference room.

I rushed over and snatched the box from her hands.

"What are you doing?" The receptionist jumped, glaring at me.

"This cake has almond flour. Your notes said nut allergy."

The girl froze, then flipped through the ingredients list.

"Oh... I didn't notice..."

The man in the suit walked out of the conference room.

"What's going on?"

The receptionist's face went pale. "Mr. Hayes, the cakes contain nuts. I missed it..."

Mr. Hayes glanced at the cake, then at his son playing on the iPad in the conference room.

He took a deep breath, visibly shaken.

"You're the delivery driver?" He looked at me.

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"Lucas Gray."

Mr. Hayes had his assistant remove all the cakes and reorder.

He called me into the hallway and handed me a thick stack of cash.

"Thank you. My son's nut allergy is severe. Last time he had an accidental exposure, he was in the ICU for four hours."

I felt the weight of the envelope. At least two thousand dollars inside.

More than I'd make in three days of deliveries.

"Mr. Hayes, I don't want the money. But I'd like to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"Have you been getting frequent headaches lately? Have you had it checked out?"

Mr. Hayes's expression changed. His eyes sharpened.

"How do you know?"

"I meet a lot of people doing deliveries. At your age, with high work stress, high blood pressure is common. I'd suggest getting a brain CT scan."

Perfectly worded.

No one would suspect a delivery driver's well-meaning advice.

Mr. Hayes stared at me for five seconds.

"Lucas Gray, what did you do before this?"

"I ran a small business."

He nodded and shoved the money into my pocket. "Take it. And give me your contact info."