The knife changed everything. What had been a desperate struggle became a dance with mortality. The blade gleamed in the yellow light, its edge honed to surgical sharpness.
Charley circled left, trying to keep his distance while looking for an opening. The thief moved with him, the knife held low and professional, its point tracking Charley's movement like a compass needle seeking magnetic north.
"You don't understand," Charley said, his voice thick from his bleeding mouth. "That card… it's not what you think."
"Then what is it? Drug money? Mob connection? Black market shit?"
The thief feinted with the knife, making Charley jerk backward. His foot caught on uneven pavement, and he stumbled, nearly going down.
"My mother is dying."
The words came out raw and desperate, but the thief just laughed.
"Everybody's got a sob story, puppet boy. Doesn't make you special."
He lunged forward with the knife.
Charley threw himself sideways, the blade whistling past his ribs close enough to slice through his jacket.
He rolled behind a dumpster, using it as cover while he tried to think of a strategy that didn't end with him bleeding out in an alley.
The thief stalked around the dumpster with methodical patience. "Come out, come out, little mouse. Let's finish this dance."
Charley's hand closed around a piece of broken brick. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. He waited until the thief's footsteps were almost on top of him, then exploded upward, swinging the brick in a wild arc.
The thief ducked under the swing and drove his fist into Charley's solar plexus. The breath left his body in a whoosh, and he doubled over, gasping like a landed fish.
The knife flashed downward.
Charley threw himself sideways, the blade scraping sparks off the pavement where his head had been a split second before. He rolled away, trying to put distance between himself and the steel death in the thief's hand.
But his back hit the alley wall. Nowhere left to run!
The thief advanced with predatory calm, knife held ready. "Nothing personal, puppet boy. But you made this more complicated than it needed to be."
Desperation made Charley reckless. He charged forward again, hoping to get inside the knife's reach before the thief could react.
This time, he almost made it.
His hands actually closed around the thief's wrist, fighting for control of the blade. For a moment, they were locked together in a deadly embrace, both men straining against each other with everything they had!
Then the thief's knee drove upward into Charley's stomach like a piston. Pain exploded through his core, doubling him over and breaking his grip on the knife hand.
The thief's left hook caught him square in the nose.
Cartilage crunched like bubble wrap. Blood exploded across his face in a warm, metallic fountain that painted the alley wall behind him.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, shooting through his skull like lightning made of molten steel.
"FUCK!" Charley screamed, his hands flying to his face as he staggered backward.
Blood poured between his fingers, hot and sticky, running down his throat and making him gag. His nose felt like someone had stuffed it full of broken glass and fire ants.
Through the haze of agony, he watched helplessly as the thief picked up the fallen wallet and backed toward the alley's exit.
"Thanks for the entertainment, hero. Next time, don't bite off more than you can chew. Not everyone is as forgiving as me."
Lucky emerged from behind the dumpster and padded over to Charley, meowing frantically as if trying to ask if he was okay.
Blood dripped from Charley's face onto the cat's black fur, but Lucky didn't retreat.
The thief reached the alley mouth and paused, grinning. "Oh, and puppet boy? Your mother's probably better off without you anyway."
Then he turned and sprinted toward the bright lights of the commercial district.
Charley slumped against the brick wall, his broken nose throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Each pulse sent fresh waves of pain through his skull, and the blood flow showed no signs of stopping.
'It's over,' he thought through the haze of agony and defeat. 'I had unlimited money for exactly one day, and I blew it. Mom's going to die because I couldn't protect a piece of plastic.'
The thief was already crossing the street, heading for the maze of all-night businesses where he could disappear forever. In thirty seconds, he'd be gone, taking Charley's miracle with him.
Twenty seconds.
Ten seconds.
The thief stepped into the crosswalk, not even bothering to look back.
That's when the Honda Civic came screaming around the corner like a metallic angel of vengeance.
Bang!
Metal met flesh with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon. The thief's body flew through the air in a graceful, almost balletic arc before crashing into a parked sedan with bone-jarring finality.
The Honda's brakes shrieked as it skidded to a stop, leaving twenty feet of rubber on wet asphalt. Steam rose from its crumpled hood like incense from an altar of twisted metal.
For a moment, the night was silent except for the hiss of escaping coolant and the distant wail of sirens.
Then the driver's door opened, and out stepped a woman who looked like she'd just experienced every driver's worst nightmare.
She was beautiful—early twenties, athletic build, warm brown skin, and long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that had somehow stayed perfect despite the chaos.
She wore workout clothes and sneakers, and her face showed the kind of genuine horror that only came from accidentally turning someone into street pizza.
"Oh my God!" she said, rushing toward the groaning thief. "I didn't see him! He just ran right into the street!"
Then she noticed Charley, slumped against the alley wall with blood covering half his face.
"Jesus Christ, are you okay? What happened here?"
"Better than him," Charley managed, pointing at the thief who was trying to crawl away from the wreckage on what appeared to be at least one broken leg.
The wallet lay in the middle of the street, its contents scattered across wet asphalt like urban confetti. Credit cards, cash, his driver's license, and…
There. Gleaming under the streetlights like a piece of captured starlight.
The Divine Black Card.
Intact. Unharmed. Still carrying eighteen thousand five hundred dollars worth of hope for his mother's life.
Lucky padded over and sat down next to the card, as if guarding it until Charley could retrieve it.
"I should call 911," the woman said, pulling out her phone with shaking hands.
"Yeah," Charley agreed, pushing himself off the wall and stumbling toward his scattered belongings. "Definitely call 911."
But first, he was going to collect his miracle.