The Pink-Haired Stranger Who Restarted My Truck—and Exposed Our Neighborhood’s Fear

I felt a knot form in my stomach. I looked at his hands again. They were rough. Calloused.

“Two jobs?”

“Three,” he said, staring out the windshield. “Warehouse at night. Deliveries in the morning. Digital transcription on weekends.”

“That’s a lot of hustle,” I said, my voice softer. “Saving for a house?”

He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Sir, I can’t even afford rent in this town anymore. The complex down the street raised rent by 40% last month. I’m not saving for a house. I’m saving for a deposit on a studio apartment.”