The sun beats down against Mallory’s neck, cool sweat dripping down her skin into her wool sweater. Should’ve left the coat at home. Too late now with no bag to shove it in, no choice but to suffer. She walks along the sidewalk alone, her head down, mouth pulled tight. Around her, shops overflow with lavish things. She isn’t here to buy—God, no, there’s no money for that. She’s here to browse, nothing more. To stare longingly and wish she’d taken a different path in life, one that would allow her to do more. Or that she’d been born into a different family with a nicer last name, one that would guarantee her a free pass through life.  

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Maybe it was a bit of masochism too, making herself stare at what she could not and never would have. Seeing people walk these streets filled her with an anger nothing else did. What made them more deserving than her of all this luxury? She’d done everything right. She’d been good even when she could’ve easily acted otherwise, never stepped out of line. If there was a God, he would be pleased with her. So why did the world reward the cruel and leave decent ones barely scraping by?  

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Mallory’s skin begins to feel tight, the coat unbearably warm. She has the sudden urge to rip it off and chuck it away to escape the unbearable heat. But then, a flash of light catches her eye. She turns. Something glimmers atop the metal fence to her right. Looking around, she steps closer, and the object sharpens into focus: a tennis bracelet littered with diamonds, left all on its own. Her wrist shakes slightly as she picks it up, clammy fingers closing around the thin band.  

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If they were real… What could it be worth? Twenty thousand? Forty? She could do a lot with money like that. And whose was it anyway? Most likely someone with more money than they knew what to do with. They could probably buy another and another and another without blinking. No one was around. No one would notice such a tiny, sparkly thing disappearing from the middle of nowhere. A thrill races through her as she slides it into her coat pocket. Just a simple swoop. It feels easier than she thought it would. Justifiable. Maybe she was supposed to have it. Maybe that’s why she’d worn her coat with zippered pockets. The universe was rewarding her for all her good deeds. Yes, she thinks. Yes, that sounds right.  

‍

・・・  

‍

The next day, Mallory sits alone in her bare apartment, turning the thin band over in her hand. The rush had been intoxicating, but now, in the stark quiet, reality sets in. She should be smart about this. If she took it to a pawn shop right away, someone would have a notice out for it. She’d get caught. No—she’d have to wait. Let time smooth things over. Be patient. Wait a little longer.  

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And in the meantime, life must go on. It’s not like she can stop working because of this. She wakes early, watching the sun creep over the hill outside her window, tea dripping from the rim of her old mug. The walk to work is short. She keeps her steps brisk and shoulders hunched as her eyes dart over her shoulder, paranoid, like someone is watching her.

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Distracted, she almost walks right through the yellow tape. Half the building is scorched black, its structure caved in, broken beams jutting out like ribs from a hollow chest. The sight doesn’t compute. She blinks once, twice, three times, but it doesn’t go away. Her boss stands outside, tie askew, his hair still slicked back with gel, but he’s clearly shaken. There has always been a deep wrinkle in his brow, but it looks particularly carved into his face now. He seems smaller than she remembers.  

“Mallory,” he sighs, pressing his phone to his chest. “Didn’t you read the company-wide email? There was a fire. Some kind of electrical issue. You shouldn’t be here.”  

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She stares, stupefied. She hasn’t checked her email since finding the bracelet. “What’s going to happen to…” She trails off, unsure how to phrase it without sounding self-centred. What’s going to happen to you? To my colleagues? The company? Our clients?

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“Your job?” He exhales sharply. “There is no job. I let our policy lapse. Couldn’t afford the premiums. We were already drowning in debt, this just finished us off.”  

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“But what about insurance?”  

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His patience frays. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “There was no insurance.”  

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Mallory feels the colour drain from her face. “But what about the kids… the sick kids—the ones waiting for the money we raise?”  

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His expression darkens, like she’s said something profoundly stupid. “You cannot seriously be asking me that,” he says flatly. “We’re not a real charity. Everyone knows that.”  

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“But… but we took the money from seniors, we said—”  

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“Mallory.” His tone is clipped now, final. “Remember the non-disclosure agreement you signed.”  

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And just like that, he’s finished with her. He offers a halfhearted “take care” before turning back to his phone, already swearing into the receiver.  

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Mallory stands there, helpless, mourning a chapter of her life that’s been reduced to ash and shame. Then, slowly, she picks up her bag and walks away.  

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・・・

‍

Mallory has walked the same route home for twenty-five years. A straight shot, only a few street changes, avoiding places she doesn’t like lingering in. She’s still trying to process the news as she moves. How could she have been so oblivious? She spoke to the old people herself, buttered them up, made them donate. Her stomach churns. She needs to talk to someone. She pulls out her phone, texts Charlie. No reply.  

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Distracted, she doesn’t notice the person barreling into her until her shoulder jerks back and her keys fly from her hand, landing with a hollow clank into the sewer grate.  

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“Damn it,” she curses, crouching, but it’s too late. No getting those back. She exhales sharply and presses on.  

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Then, just as she crosses the street, a police officer steps in front of her.  

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“Miss, you can’t jaywalk here. I’m going to have to fine you.”  

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Mallory blinks. “Fine me? I’ve been crossing here for twenty-five years.” 

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The officer’s supervisor sits in the cop car nearby, sipping coffee. She’s trying to impress him. Of course she is. Caught in the crossfire, Mallory sighs, fills out the fine, and—because this day can’t get worse—something slimy suddenly splats onto her forehead.  

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She touches her skin. A greasy white smear comes away on her fingers as she looks up at the sky.

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・・・

‍

She can’t go home—she can’t get in—so she goes to a bar instead. The floor is sticky, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer. She orders a drink, barely paying attention to the chatter beside her.  

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Until she hears a name.  

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“…Charlie.”  

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Her head snaps up. “Excuse me,” she interrupts, voice high. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but what are you talking about?”  

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The man glances at her. “You didn’t hear?” When she shakes her head, he continues. “Charlie, the postal worker, had an accident at Webster’s place. Fell off that shitty staircase, rolled into the road, got hit by a FedEx truck. He’s in the hospital now.”  

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The room tilts. The voices dissolve into a distant hum. Mallory barely manages to push herself out the door before she starts running. The sun has nearly vanished by the time she reaches the hospital, panting, lungs burning. The sky is bruised with twilight as she stumbles inside on her last legs of consciousness. 

The receptionist at the front desk looks up. “Can I help you?”  

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Mallory opens her mouth—then crumples to the ground.  

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・・・

‍

The machines beep softly. Charlie lies there, bandaged and broken, his face swollen, purple bruises blooming along his jaw. Tubes, wires, oxygen mask. His chest rises in uneven intervals. Mallory watches him, exhausted, vision blurring at the edges. She sees something glowing. Something resplendent.

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Then—darkness.  

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She jerks awake to the sound of a doctor’s voice outside.  

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Gently, she reaches for Charlie’s bruised, cut-up hand. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers into the hum of the machines.  

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・・・

‍

A well-dressed man examines the bracelet under warm jewelry store lighting, loupe pressed to his eye.  

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“This is a gorgeous piece,” he says. “Platinum setting, flawless diamonds.” He whistles. “Each one nearly a carat. Do you have certification?”  

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“No… well, it was my grandmother’s, so…”  

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“No worries. I’ll appraise it myself.”  

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He disappears, returning a moment later with a slip of paper.  

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“I can offer you 37,562 dollars. Cashier’s check or bank transfer?”  

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Mallory’s hand runs anxiously over her pant leg. “Cashier’s check, please.”  

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He nods, hands her an envelope. “Pleasure doing business with you.”  

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Mallory swallows, bracing herself. “You too.”  

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・・・

‍

The automatic doors of the hospital glide open. Inside, people sit slumped in waiting room chairs, their faces weary, the air heavy with antiseptic. Mallory steps up to the front desk, gripping the envelope tightly.  

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“I’d like to make a donation.”  

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The receptionist brightens. “That’s very kind of you. Would you like to donate to a specific fund?”  

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“Yes,” Mallory says. “The Make-A-Wish Foundation. For sick kids.”  

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“You’re a very good person, you know that.”  

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Mallory’s cheeks flush red. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”  

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“Well, you did the right thing today.”

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