Chapter 2 · Three Years, One Secret

I lowered my head, silent for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, I started clearing the table without being asked. Delilah didn't stop me.

In the kitchen, with the water running, I scraped the barely-touched shrimp into a plastic bag I'd already tucked away in my pocket.

Taking out the trash as an excuse, I carried a bowl of water to the far corner of the yard.

The orange tabby was already there, as if waiting. It let out a pleading little meow at the sight of me.

I dumped the shrimp into its chipped ceramic dish.

It dove in immediately, eating with frantic gusto, a loud purr rumbling in its throat.

I knelt down and stroked its back.

Three years of my secret feedings had transformed it from a scrawny kitten into a solid, well-fed tomcat.

Its coat was glossy and thick, its eyes bright and alert. It didn't look like a stray at all.

It looked... incredibly healthy.

A crazy thought shot through my mind.

Was there really something special about these shrimp?

I couldn't sleep that night.

Lying in bed, I searched my phone over and over. "Health benefits of river shrimp," "Shrimp and liver function."

The results were all the same generic stuff. High in protein, nutritious. Nothing about miraculous effects on liver enzymes.

I tried more specific searches.

"Special river shrimp," "Medicinal shrimp," "Premium shrimp."

The results got weirder, even throwing up some shady supplement ads.

I turned off my phone. The room was dark, but my mind was racing, wide awake.

Something was off. This didn't add up.

I made a decision. Tomorrow, I was going to the market myself. I needed to find out exactly what kind of shrimp Delilah was buying, and where she was getting them.

Early the next morning, before the sun was fully up, I slipped out of bed.

I put on some plain, forgettable clothes, a cap, and a face mask, trying my best not to look like I was tailing someone.

Delilah's routine was clockwork. Every day, 6:30 AM sharp, she left for the market with her basket.

I watched from behind the curtains as she stepped out of the gate. I counted to sixty, then followed.

The morning streets were quiet. I kept my distance, trailing her by several dozen yards.

It was only a ten-minute walk to the market.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with sweat.

I wasn't sure what I was more afraid of, getting caught or what I might actually discover.

Delilah moved fast, heading straight in.

Inside, the usual morning chaos erupted. Hawkers yelled, shoppers haggled.

I blended into the crowd, my eyes glued to her.

She weaved through the vegetable and meat sections with purpose, but she didn't stop at a single stall.

My stomach dropped.

She didn't go to the seafood section.

She didn't even glance toward the wet, fishy-smelling aisles overflowing with tanks of shrimp and crab.

She walked right through the entire market and exited out the back.

I hurried after her, confused.

Behind the market was an old, narrow alley. Moss clung to the walls, the pavement was cracked, and the air smelled damp and stale.

It was practically deserted.

Delilah walked deeper into the alley and stopped at a corner.

She pulled out her phone and checked the time, like she was waiting for someone.

I ducked behind a stack of discarded cardboard boxes nearby, peeking out, holding my breath.

About five minutes later, a battered electric trike came puttering from the other end of the alley and stopped in front of her.

The driver wore a low baseball cap, his skin weathered.

He didn't say a word. From the back of the trike, he lifted a white styrofoam cooler.

A puff of white, cold air escaped when he opened the lid.

He pulled out a small bundle wrapped tightly in a black plastic bag and handed it to Delilah.

In the same motion, she took it and pulled a thick, bulging envelope from her own bag, passing it to him.

He took it, gave it a quick, discreet squeeze, and seemed satisfied with the heft. With a nod, he loaded the cooler back onto his trike and drove off just as quickly as he'd arrived.

The whole exchange took less than a minute. No words. It was a clean, practiced, secretive handoff.

Pressing myself against the wall, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break free.

Chapter 2

I lowered my head, silent for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, I started clearing the table without being asked. Delilah didn't stop me.

In the kitchen, with the water running, I scraped the barely-touched shrimp into a plastic bag I'd already tucked away in my pocket.

Taking out the trash as an excuse, I carried a bowl of water to the far corner of the yard.

The orange tabby was already there, as if waiting. It let out a pleading little meow at the sight of me.

I dumped the shrimp into its chipped ceramic dish.

It dove in immediately, eating with frantic gusto, a loud purr rumbling in its throat.

I knelt down and stroked its back.

Three years of my secret feedings had transformed it from a scrawny kitten into a solid, well-fed tomcat.

Its coat was glossy and thick, its eyes bright and alert. It didn't look like a stray at all.

It looked... incredibly healthy.

A crazy thought shot through my mind.

Was there really something special about these shrimp?

I couldn't sleep that night.

Lying in bed, I searched my phone over and over. "Health benefits of river shrimp," "Shrimp and liver function."

The results were all the same generic stuff. High in protein, nutritious. Nothing about miraculous effects on liver enzymes.

I tried more specific searches.

"Special river shrimp," "Medicinal shrimp," "Premium shrimp."

The results got weirder, even throwing up some shady supplement ads.

I turned off my phone. The room was dark, but my mind was racing, wide awake.

Something was off. This didn't add up.

I made a decision. Tomorrow, I was going to the market myself. I needed to find out exactly what kind of shrimp Delilah was buying, and where she was getting them.

Early the next morning, before the sun was fully up, I slipped out of bed.

I put on some plain, forgettable clothes, a cap, and a face mask, trying my best not to look like I was tailing someone.

Delilah's routine was clockwork. Every day, 6:30 AM sharp, she left for the market with her basket.

I watched from behind the curtains as she stepped out of the gate. I counted to sixty, then followed.

The morning streets were quiet. I kept my distance, trailing her by several dozen yards.

It was only a ten-minute walk to the market.

My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with sweat.

I wasn't sure what I was more afraid of, getting caught or what I might actually discover.

Delilah moved fast, heading straight in.

Inside, the usual morning chaos erupted. Hawkers yelled, shoppers haggled.

I blended into the crowd, my eyes glued to her.

She weaved through the vegetable and meat sections with purpose, but she didn't stop at a single stall.

My stomach dropped.

She didn't go to the seafood section.

She didn't even glance toward the wet, fishy-smelling aisles overflowing with tanks of shrimp and crab.

She walked right through the entire market and exited out the back.

I hurried after her, confused.

Behind the market was an old, narrow alley. Moss clung to the walls, the pavement was cracked, and the air smelled damp and stale.

It was practically deserted.

Delilah walked deeper into the alley and stopped at a corner.

She pulled out her phone and checked the time, like she was waiting for someone.

I ducked behind a stack of discarded cardboard boxes nearby, peeking out, holding my breath.

About five minutes later, a battered electric trike came puttering from the other end of the alley and stopped in front of her.

The driver wore a low baseball cap, his skin weathered.

He didn't say a word. From the back of the trike, he lifted a white styrofoam cooler.

A puff of white, cold air escaped when he opened the lid.

He pulled out a small bundle wrapped tightly in a black plastic bag and handed it to Delilah.

In the same motion, she took it and pulled a thick, bulging envelope from her own bag, passing it to him.

He took it, gave it a quick, discreet squeeze, and seemed satisfied with the heft. With a nod, he loaded the cooler back onto his trike and drove off just as quickly as he'd arrived.

The whole exchange took less than a minute. No words. It was a clean, practiced, secretive handoff.

Pressing myself against the wall, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break free.