Chapter 2: Bit by Bit
DING
The heavy oak door of Soul Food groaned on its ancient hinges, a low, reluctant creak that seemed to carry the weight of every soul who'd pushed through it over the years. James stepped inside, the wood scraping faintly against the worn frame, and a bell above let out a bright, silvery ding—a sound so lively it felt like it was laughing at the tired world outside. The air inside was warm, thick with the smell of sizzling burgers and fryer grease, a comfort that wrapped around him like an old friend.
The street outside pulsed with life. A car horn blared, sharp and impatient, followed by a shout—"Yo, move it!"—that cut through the hum of engines and tires rolling over cracked asphalt. Somewhere down the block, children's voices rose in a chaotic symphony of joy, their laughter spilling from a nearby playground. "You're it!" a girl shrieked, her voice high and wild, accompanied by the patter of sneakers slapping pavement. The sounds wove together, a gritty urban tapestry that James barely noticed anymore, yet it grounded him, reminded him he was still part of this restless city.
"Whatsupp, bruh? What you up to today?" Jasper's voice boomed from behind the counter, warm and familiar as he leaned forward, offering a playful shake of James's shoulder. His grin was wide, the kind that made you feel seen, even on days when you wanted to disappear.
"Good, bruv. Just divin'," James replied, his voice dry, the weight of the day clinging to him like damp clothes. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a quiet ache that had followed him since morning.
"So, what you want from Soul Food?" Jasper asked, already tapping at the monitor with practiced ease.
"Gimme Monty's Good Burger—the Impossible one—and a breakfast smoothie," James said, his mouth watering at the thought of something warm and filling.
"That's $24. Have a seat, five minutes tops," Jasper replied, his fingers flying over the screen.
"Thanks, man." James dug into his right pocket, pulling out his battered Samsung S8. The screen was cracked, flickering slightly as he unlocked it and scrolled to his Venmo. With a few taps, he sent the payment, the app chiming a soft ding as the transaction cleared.
[You sent $24.00
To: soul food (@soulfood)
Note: food
Paid with: Venmo balance $384
Status: Completed • Oct 13, 2025, 11:15 AM]
"Hey, Jasper, I sent the money," James called out, slumping into a chair by the window. "Oh, and I sent your school project on WhatsApp. Don't forget we got the night shift at McDonald's tonight."
"Seen, thanks, man. I got the PDF this morning," Jasper said, glancing up from the counter. "But, uh, I can't make the shift. Got a date with Bella tonight. Rex is covering for me."
"Alright," James said, his tone flat but not surprised. Jasper's life always seemed to move a little easier, a little brighter. He envied that sometimes, though he'd never say it out loud.
The minutes stretched, and James's gaze drifted outside. A delivery truck rumbled past, its engine growling, kicking up a swirl of dust and leaves. The kids were still at it, their shouts softer now as the game wound down. A mother's voice cut through—"Time to eat, y'all!"—and the playground erupted in groans, the sound fading as small figures scattered toward home.
Fifteen minutes later, his food arrived, and James devoured it, the warmth of the burger and the cool tang of the smoothie soothing the edges of his hunger. But the day wasn't done with him yet. He left Soul Food, the bell jingling behind him, and headed toward the back of the nearby Walmart, a black bag slung over his shoulder. The afternoon sun beat down, glinting off broken glass on the pavement. He yawned, stretching as he walked, the weight of the bag pulling at his sore muscles. Scavenging wasn't glamorous—picking through dumpsters and gutters for plastic bottles and discarded treasures—but it was honest work, and every cent brought him closer to keeping the lights on.
By 3:21 PM, he'd collected enough to head to Manuel's Pawn Shop, a squat brick building just a block from his apartment. The street was alive here too—cars idling, a distant siren wailing, and the faint chatter of neighbors gossiping on a stoop. James pushed open the door, the familiar musty smell of old metal and dust hitting him as he dragged his heavy bag inside.
"Good afternoon, Joan," he said, his voice tired but polite. "Got some stuff to sell."
"Let's see what you got, Holmes," Joan replied, her tone gruff but not unkind as she leaned over the counter.
James opened the bag, spreading out his haul: a cracked but working Galaxy S9, a tarnished sterling silver bracelet, a used JBL Flip 3 speaker, a slightly worn Black & Decker drill, a non-luxury quartz watch, a functional Xbox One controller, a bundle of clean costume earrings, and a cleaned toaster. Joan inspected each item with a practiced eye, muttering prices as she went.
"Galaxy S9, $30. Bracelet, $20. Speaker, $15. Drill, $25. Watch, $10. Controller, $15. Earrings, $25. Toaster, $10. Total's $150."
"Cash or transfer?" Joan asked, scribbling on a notepad.
"Venmo. You got my Venmo, right?" James said, already pulling out his phone.
"Yeah."
A moment later, his phone chimed again, the screen lighting up with the notification.
[You received $150.00
From: joan (@jan)
Note: pawn
Paid with: Venmo balance $534
Status: Completed • Oct 13, 2025, 3:25 PM]
The money felt like a small victory, a flicker of relief in the endless grind. James's chest tightened—not with joy, but with the quiet satisfaction of survival. He was still here, still scraping by, bit by bit. "Thanks a lot, see you later," he said, offering Joan a nod before stepping back into the street.
The five-story apartment building loomed ahead, its cracked concrete facade and peeling paint sagging under the weight of neglect. The air smelled of exhaust and faintly of garbage from the alley below. As James climbed the narrow stairwell to his second-floor unit, the chipped steps creaked under his boots, and the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He nodded at Mrs. Rivera, who was sweeping her doorstep, her radio blasting salsa that mingled with the distant honk of a car horn.
His one-bedroom apartment was a cramped 400-square-foot cave, the kind of place that felt like it was holding its breath. The front door, scratched and warped, groaned as he pushed it open. A single grimy window let in a sliver of light, framing a view of a brick wall. The living area held a sagging couch, its upholstery torn, and a coffee table scarred with cigarette burns. The kitchen nook was barely functional—a chipped sink, a stuttering gas stove, and a mini-fridge that hummed like it was on its last legs. The bedroom was no better, a 10x10 box with a lumpy mattress and a closet door hanging off its hinges. The bathroom's cracked tiles and leaky showerhead completed the picture, the faint drip of water a constant reminder of the building's decay.
James passed through the living room, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt as he headed for the bathroom. The water sputtered, cold at first, then warm, washing away the day's grime and the quiet shame of scavenging. He stood under the stream, letting it drown out the street noise—the rumble of a passing bus, the faint giggle of kids playing one last game before dark. For a moment, he felt lighter, the weight of the day slipping down the drain.
But the world didn't wait. He changed into his McDonald's uniform, the polyester clinging uncomfortably to his still-damp skin. As he locked the door behind him and headed to his shift, the city kept moving—cars honking, kids laughing, life grinding on. James felt it all, the exhaustion, the small triumphs, the stubborn hope that kept him going. Bit by bit, he'd make it through. He always did.