Chapter 2

2: 2

2

Sarah went quiet for a long time.

Long enough that I thought she'd never speak again.

Then she lifted her head and looked at me, her eyes sharp as knives.

"Fine. You want custody of our daughter? Take her."

"Works out. I don't want some deadweight in my way anyway. I'd love to see how you plan to feed her."

Sarah paused, glancing at the money in my hand, the sneer on her face open and unhidden.

"But don't say I didn't warn you. You took the money, so from here on we're square. Completely."

"After this, you'd better keep your distance. I don't want any of your broke-loser stink rubbing off on me."

I nodded, cold.

"Don't worry. Even if I'm out begging one day, I won't beg at your door."

"Because... I... think... you're filthy!"

I pressed my pen hard into the divorce papers and signed my name.

When I finished, I dropped the pen, turned, and walked out.

Sarah blew up like a cat with its tail stepped on.

"Earl Fox, who do you think you're fooling?"

"You're one step from starving in the street, and you're still up here playing high and mighty?"

"Joy got saddled with a father like you. That's eight lifetimes of rotten luck!"

"I'll be waiting for the day you're broke and crawling on the ground, begging me like a dog."

I didn't turn around. My steps didn't slow for a second.

Even from a distance, I could still faintly hear Sarah's hysterical cursing behind me.

Curse away.

Curse all you want.

There'd come a day when they'd be the ones crying.

Saul and Sarah thought that now the barbecue joint had made its name, they didn't need me anymore, so they kicked me out.

What they didn't know.

The reason that place did so well.

It was never Saul's so-called management.

It was all riding on the signature secret sauce I'd worked myself half to death to perfect.

I'd love to see it.

Once I was gone, what exactly was going to keep the customers coming?

I went back and packed my things. It didn't take long.

There wasn't really much to pack.

Aside from my daughter's things, all I had were a few changes of clothes.

Everything together didn't even fill one suitcase.

I moved into a rundown low-income neighborhood with my daughter.

I felt the money in my pocket.

Renting meant one month's deposit and three months up front.

After the forty-eight hundred I'd just handed over for the place.

The thirty-two hundred left was everything I had to my name now.

And all the startup money I had.

I took out eight hundred.

At the used market I dug up a three-wheeled cart that rattled everywhere except the bell.

With what was left I set up the basics, a stainless steel prep counter, a burner, and a few essential ingredients.

Night fell.

I set up a stall at the Tigerlark night market, the busiest spot on the North Side.

But the beginning is always the hardest.

At first, since I was new.

And had no flashy sign or gimmicks.

Almost nobody stopped at my stall.

It wasn't until I was nearly ready to pack up that I finally got my first customer.

"Hey, one order of fried chicken cutlets."

A taxi driver pulled up in front of my stall.

Light the burner, heat the oil in the pan.

Every move smooth, one flowing into the next.

Five minutes later, a golden, fragrant chicken cutlet came out of the oil.

The driver was in a hurry, just looking to fill his stomach.

But the moment he took a bite, his eyes lit right up.

"Not bad at all, man! Crispy outside, tender inside, sauce all over it. This is good!"

He praised it freely between bites.

I just gave a faint smile.

"Glad you like it. Come back anytime."

Where there's one, there's a second.

That night, I sold thirty-five orders of fried chicken cutlets.

Fifteen dollars an order.

After costs, I cleared two hundred sixty in profit.

And that two hundred sixty, I didn't have to split with a single soul.

Looking at my daughter's sleeping face, I felt the drive fill me up again, and the exhaustion seemed to fall right off me.

On the strength of my signature secret sauce and fresh ingredients, I drew in batch after batch of regulars.

My little stall started to make a name for itself at the night market, and business kept getting hotter.

Until three months later.

My stall got a visitor I never expected.