The walk back from Central Park had been anything but peaceful. The initial glow of Lily's excitement had evaporated, leaving behind a familiar storm cloud. Winsten knew the precise moment it happened. They were strolling past a brightly colored ice cream truck. Lily had pointed, her eyes wide, and Winsten, feeling a rare indulgence, had nodded. Then he saw the price list.
"Lily, wait," he'd said, his voice hesitant. "An ice cream cone is six dollars here."
Her face fell, a swift and dramatic shift from hopeful anticipation to bitter disappointment. "Six dollars? That's ridiculous, Winsten! My friends get ice cream all the time. Why can't I?"
He had tried to explain, tried to soothe. "It's just… Central Park prices, munchkin. That's just unreasonable for a cone, you know? It's not worth it."
But she wasn't listening. The anger simmered, then bubbled over. "It's not fair!" she'd burst out, her voice rising, drawing a few curious glances. "It's not fair I can't even buy a stupid ice cream cone while my friends get expensive shoes and nice bags!"
The words, sharp with teenage indignation, hit him harder than any physical blow. They echoed the same frustrations that gnawing at him, but hearing them from Lily, so raw and unfiltered, was a fresh wound. She stomped ahead, her small shoulders hunched, and when they finally reached their apartment, she stormed into her room, the door slamming shut with a final, jarring thud.
Winsten sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and a deeper weariness. He felt it then, a dull, persistent ache in his shoulder, a pain that had been a quiet companion for the last couple of days. He had government insurance, he knew he could go to a doctor, but finding the time? It was a laughable thought. Between his endless shifts and taking care of Lily, there was never any time to himself. He longed for it, craved just a few hours to read a book, or even to try and write one, a story that had been simmering in his mind for years. He missed the escape of video games, a hobby he'd barely touched since his first year of college. Most of all, he missed hanging out with his friends, especially Gwen Sullen. She'd been his friend since first grade, all the way through college, and they'd even worked together at the local mall until he started driving a taxi. They were close, but he never had a moment to himself, no time to rest, to sit in peace, or even to grab a coffee with her.
He needed air, space. Leaving Lily to stew in her room, he quietly slipped out of the apartment and went for a walk in the local park. Unlike the manicured lawns of Central Park, this one was wilder, less tamed by human hands. It was huge, with sprawling forests and vast grassy spaces for walking and sitting, a chaotic green lung in the heart of the concrete jungle. He had never understood why parks in dangerous neighborhoods seemed so much better, more expansive, than those in the affluent ones. Maybe it was just the contrast, the stark relief against the surrounding blight.
Winsten walked aimlessly, the familiar ache in his shoulder a dull counterpoint to the turmoil in his mind. He reflected on how hard life was, the relentless grind of his work and the constant pressure of taking care of Lily. He knew he was doing his best, pushing himself to the brink every single day, yet it still felt like Lily isn't happy. He was barely keeping their heads above water, and the cost was everything else – his time, his energy, his own well-being. He truly had no time to himself. Life had been tough and difficult, a relentless battle where he was constantly fighting, just trying to survive.
He found an unoccupied bench, a cracked, paint-peeling testament to years of neglect, and sat down. He leaned back, tilting his head to face the vast, indifferent sky, his gaze lost in the deepening evening light. He reflected on the universe, on his tiny, insignificant place within its immensity, and on the baffling, just nature of his life's struggle and pain.
He never understood how, on apps, he saw houses listed for twelve million dollars. Who in their right mind had twelve million to waste like that for a house? Or a condo for six million dollars in Manhattan – an apartment, for that much, was utterly ridiculous. He thought of people renting luxury apartments for $6,000 a month in Brooklyn. It was beyond his comprehension. And then there were cars – he'd seen one, a sleek, impossible machine, advertised for 1.2 million dollars. And he couldn't even spend $6 on an ice cream cone for his sister, whom he loved and cared about, without feeling or thinking of the pain of his bills and expenses.
This was all ridiculous to Winsten. To him, even $2,000 to $3,000 rent in New York City a month was a big, giant amount. And he lived in a dangerous neighborhood, paid less than that, and it was still a huge, crushing sum that he worked non-stop to pay off after all the other deductions. If he was working non-stop and struggling to merely exist, how were these people wasting so much on a house, a car, or an apartment? He, Winsten, was out here working six days a week, often seven, pulling crazy eleven-hour shifts just to make $300-$400 a day, only to have the weekly $930 cab lease, daily congestion fees, and 24% quarterly taxes chew up most of it, leaving him with scraps. He was living paycheck to paycheck, in a dangerous neighborhood, constantly vigilant, just trying to keep his sister safe and fed.
He realized he wondered what made these people so special where they got to enjoy the world, where their biggest worry was probably which gourmet coffee to buy, while he worked six days and crazy hours to live in a dangerous neighborhood. The unfairness of it all was a bitter pill. He sighed, heavy with frustration, agitated with that stark realization of the contrast of lives people lived. Some poor and struggling, even homeless, or working non-stop just to stay afloat. And some kicking back, living in luxury and rich, taking life easy and enjoying it.
His phone vibrated, startling him from his dark reverie. He sighed, not wanting to look at it. It was probably a bill reminder, another notification of money he didn't have. He reluctantly pulled it from his pocket, expecting bad news or some nonsense. He sighed again, bracing himself.
He read the message.
"$3,000.00 has been deposited to your bank account."
Winsten stared at the screen, his face a mask of utter shock. His breath caught in his throat. "What in the world?" he whispered into the quiet evening, the mysterious deposit a sudden, impossible crack in the hardened shell of his reality.