Chapter 1: The Battery Vanishes

I’d been riding that battered old scooter for three years when someone finally stole the battery. For three days straight, I let my rage loose on Facebook: angry memes, tagging the neighborhood watch, and enough #NeighborhoodCrime and #NotInMyTown hashtags to make even my grandma roll her eyes. Every post sent my phone buzzing with stories about stolen packages and porch pirates, friends piling on with support and a few choice insults for whoever took my battery.

Then, out of nowhere, my neighbor—Granny Wilson—stopped me at the bottom of the stairs. Right there, in full view of everyone waiting for the bus or hustling off to work, she dropped to her knees with a loud, embarrassing thud. The morning air still carried a hint of last night’s rain, and for a second, time froze—coffee cups halfway to lips, eyes wide, mouths open.

She begged, voice breaking: “I’m so sorry—I took your battery home to charge it, but it blew up! My family’s in the hospital now. Please, you have the receipt, right? I need it—please, you have to help us!” Her desperation echoed off the walls, drawing every stare in the building. Even the crossing guard’s head snapped up.

My jaw dropped. For a second, I almost laughed—was this real? My hands clenched around my coffee, knuckles white. The crowd’s eyes burned into me, waiting for me to say something.

Seriously? If I gave her the receipt, she’d blame me and try to stick me with her family’s hospital bills. My mind spun with worst-case scenarios—lawyers, court dates, debt collectors. No way was I falling for this act.