Later, while arranging stock on a cluttered shelf, his phone pinged yet again. Sighing, he scrolled through more suspicious messages referencing “Rusty’s Recovery” and “crowdfunding.” Confusion flared—these subject lines hit uncomfortably close to home. But he dismissed them with a cynical laugh, chalking it up to coincidence or scams.
By three in the morning, Derrick felt his knees threaten to buckle. The store was eerily quiet, fluorescent lights casting ghostly shadows. He slumped against a shelf, breathing shakily. A memory of Rusty bounding joyfully through a sunlit park jolted him upright. He couldn’t afford to rest.