My customers depended on me to deliver their meals, each clinging to their last bit of hope. At that moment, I wasn't just a delivery person. I was practically a doctor, saving lives with every meal I delivered.
With this newfound sense of responsibility, I sped up. But if nothing unexpected happened... Well, something did. I ended up in a ditch and had to be rushed to the hospital.
Lying in my hospital bed, I pulled out my notebook again: [Day 2 of street vending: Delivery fees earned: 47 dollars. Scooter wrecked in a ditch: loss of 3,000 dollars. Medical expenses: 1,200 dollars, reimbursed 750. Got fired by my boss, and the penalty fee was 20,000 dollars. Total earnings for the day: 16,597 dollars.]
"See? Making money isn't that difficult after all," I thought.
I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Out of the blue, Sebastian texted me: [Come home for dinner tonight.]
I looked at this message with great disdain and rejected it immediately: [Not coming.]
I figured, "I'm now making over 10,000 dollars a month. Why would I need his support to get by? Besides, I'm still recovering and can barely walk."