March 15, 2010 – Monday Morning
The alarm clock buzzed, but William was already awake. He had been lying in bed for half an hour, staring at the ceiling, counting through his plans. The lottery win was sitting safely in the bank, but a pile of numbers meant nothing if he didn't move fast. Money, he knew, was like water—it flowed away if left sitting still.
Beside him, Sarah stirred, stretching with a small groan. Her hair spilled across the pillow like dark silk, and when her eyes opened, William caught himself staring. She blinked, then smiled softly. "You're watching me again," she teased, voice still heavy with sleep.
"Of course I am," William replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're the most beautiful sight I'll ever see." Sarah rolled her eyes but the color in her cheeks betrayed her. She reached up, pulling him closer for a light kiss before pushing him back. "Flatterer. Go brush your teeth."
Andrew's voice cut through the tender moment. "Mom! Dad! I'm hungry!" From the kitchen came the sound of plates clattering. William laughed, pulling away reluctantly. "Duty calls." He got up, threw on a T-shirt, and walked out to find his son trying to climb onto the counter to reach the cereal box.
"Whoa there, champ," William said, scooping him down. Andrew giggled. "I was just helping." William ruffled his hair. "Helping Daddy give Mommy a heart attack, maybe."
By breakfast, the apartment smelled of toast and coffee. Sarah hummed softly while pouring milk, Andrew drummed a spoon against his bowl, and William scribbled numbers on a notepad at the table. He wasn't writing lottery codes this time—he was drafting a list of markets and pawn shops, a map of where he could strike first.
Sarah noticed. "You're plotting again," she said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Not plotting," William corrected with a small grin. "Planning. Today's the start."
With two hundred dollars in his pocket and a backpack slung over his shoulder, William set out. The city was brisk, the March air still cool enough to sting his cheeks. He moved quickly through the subway, his mind calculating, adjusting.
His first stop was a pawn shop in Brooklyn he remembered from his previous life. The place looked the same—cluttered glass cases, the scent of dust and metal, and a grumpy man behind the counter. William spotted what he wanted almost instantly: a box of old but limited trading cards stacked carelessly in a corner.
"How much for the lot?" William asked.
The man peered at him suspiciously. "Hundred bucks."
William didn't argue. He knew that within a year, when nostalgia hit and a new movie reignited the craze, collectors would pay triple. He slid the cash across, packed the cards carefully, and left without another word.
At a flea market later, he found a pair of sneakers shoved under a table—rare, barely worn, forgotten. The seller shrugged when William asked. "Forty bucks. I just want them gone."
William bit back a smile. "Deal."
By the end of the afternoon, his backpack was heavy with small treasures: sneakers, trading cards, a set of silver coins he bought from an elderly seller for less than their future melt value. Nothing flashy, nothing that would raise eyebrows—just smart, quiet moves.
When he returned home, Sarah was folding laundry in the living room. Andrew sat on the floor surrounded by crayons, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he drew what looked like a family portrait.
"Back already?" Sarah asked without looking up.
"Yeah." William set the backpack down and pulled out the sneakers first.
Sarah blinked. "Shoes? You spent all day on shoes?"
William chuckled. "Not just shoes." He showed her the coins, then the trading cards. She stared, unimpressed. "So we're broke, but now we're collectors?"
"Not collectors," William corrected, crouching in front of her. "Investors. These things will flip fast, Sarah. I know their value before anyone else does."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Will, I want to believe you. I really do. But this looks like… junk."
William leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I promise you. These little pieces will put food on the table, pay rent, buy Andrew his school supplies. Just trust me."
Sarah's eyes softened. She reached out, cupped his face in her palm, and kissed him lightly on the lips. "You're lucky you're handsome when you're crazy."
Andrew looked up and made a face. "Ewww, Mom, Dad, gross!" They both burst out laughing.
March 16,
The next morning, William listed the sneakers online. Within hours, his inbox pinged with offers. By noon, he had sold them for two hundred and fifty dollars—six times what he paid. When he showed Sarah the cash that evening, her jaw dropped.
"Okay," she admitted slowly, "maybe you're not crazy."
William pulled her close, whispering into her ear. "Told you. I'll turn dust into gold." She shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath but shoved him playfully. "Stop trying to be charming."
That night, after Andrew had fallen asleep, they sat together on the couch. Sarah leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, their fingers entwined. William turned, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Do you know how lucky I am?" he murmured.
Sarah tilted her head up, eyes meeting his. "To have sneakers and comic books?"
He laughed, then kissed her lips softly, lingering. "No. To have you. To get another chance to love you right."
Her eyes glistened, and she kissed him back, deeper this time. For a moment, the world outside—the debts, the shadows of Rafi, the endless grind—ceased to exist.
They celebrated Andrew's small achievement at school—he had earned a gold star for a math quiz. William took them out to dinner at a cozy diner downtown. Andrew devoured pancakes, Sarah wore a simple blue dress that made William stare all evening, and the three of them laughed like a family untouched by hardship.
On the walk home, Sarah slipped her hand into William's, swinging it lightly. "You're different now," she said softly. "I don't know what happened, but… I like it."
William kissed her knuckles. "It's just the beginning, love."
But when they reached the apartment building, a chill passed through him. A man leaned against the wall near the entrance, smoking, his eyes following William too closely. Recognition flared—one of Rafi's men. William tightened his grip on Sarah's hand and guided her inside without a word.
That night, lying in bed, Sarah asleep against his chest, William stared into the darkness. The sneakers and coins had brought him profit, the family moments had given him warmth, but the shadow of Rafi was creeping closer.
He kissed Sarah's forehead gently, whispering to himself, "I'll protect this. No matter what it takes."