Creatix Fiction / August 14, 2025
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Chapter 4 – Pray for Luck. Train for Pluck
Rafael Brown and his granddaughter watched the tail lights of the ambulance disappear down the road. Before the quiet could settle back in, a small cluster of neighbors came to ask what had happened. There weren’t many of them. This was a sleepy cul-de-sac with only four houses. To the left lived Mrs. Hargrove, a very old lady in her mid-90s who still managed her garden but didn’t venture out much. To the far right was a couple in their 60s, but they were out of town visiting grandchildren. The ones who had come were from the main street just before the cul-de-sac.
They drifted in as if it were Halloween with grown-ups this time and everyday Minnesota "costumes", gathering together for the evening’s gossip candy. Faces leaned forward, voices hushed but eager, each person hungry for the morsel of news that had brought flashing lights to their quiet corner of Minnesota.
Neighbor #1 (tall man in a faded Twins baseball cap, hands in his pockets, stepping onto the driveway): “Evenin’, Rafael… Rachel. Beautiful night we’re havin’, huh? Feels more like July than June—air’s just perfect, little bit of breeze, no skeeters yet. Wish it wasn’t under these circumstances though. You folks know what happened with old Mr. Johnson?”
Rafael (glancing toward the end of the cul-de-sac): “Evenin’. Yeah, can’t complain about the weather. Almost feels wasted tonight. All we know is he took a bad turn, and the ambulance came quick. They’re takin’ him to Mayo.”
Neighbor #2 (woman in her 50s, wearing a sunflower-print apron, balancing a pie dish covered in foil): “Oh, bless his heart. He’s such a sweetheart. Always brings my paper up to the porch if it’s raining. And that time in February, he shoveled my sidewalk before I even woke up. I sure hope it’s nothing serious.”
Neighbor #3 (retired gentleman in plaid shirt and suspenders, carrying a folding lawn chair as if ready for a neighborhood chat): “Mmhmm. Haven’t seen that many flashing lights here since that big windstorm back in ’09. Remember that? Whole block without power, and Johnson was out there with that old generator of his, keeping everyone’s freezer from thawin’. He’s a tough one, but still—reminds you we’re all just one phone call away from life changing.”
Neighbor #4 (teenager with shaggy hair, earbuds hanging around his neck, sipping from a 44-ounce gas station soda): “Yeah, my mom says he used to fix lawnmowers for folks, just for fun and to help. Just liked helpin’ people. I’ve seen him out there working on that old riding mower like it was a classic car or something.”
Rachel (managing a small smile): “That sounds like him. He’s been a good neighbor to us too. Always checking in, even if it’s just a wave.”
Neighbor #1 (nodding slowly): “Well, if you hear any news, let us know. And if you need anything—casserole, yard work, whatever—you know where to find us.”
Neighbor #2 (gesturing toward the pie dish): “I actually made a strawberry rhubarb earlier—garden rhubarb, not store-bought—and I was thinkin’ about bringing it over to him tomorrow. Guess I’ll just leave it with you folks for now.”
Rafael: “That’s mighty kind of you. We’ll make sure it gets to him when he’s back.”
Neighbor #3 (settling into his lawn chair right there in the driveway): “Y’know, folks in the city, they don’t do this—stand around and talk just ’cause something happened. But here… well, it’s just what you do. Keeps a community together.”
Neighbor #4 (half-grinning): “And the weather doesn’t hurt. Beats standing around in January when your nose freezes in five minutes.”
Neighbor #1 (chuckling): “Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, we’ll keep him in our prayers tonight. Rachel, maybe you should get out to the Farmers Market next Saturday. Good berries this year, and you know, fresh air never hurt anyone.”
Neighbor #2 (softly): “Tell Mr. Johnson when you see him that we’re all rooting for him. He’s not alone.”
Rafael: “We’ll tell him. Thank you.”
Here’s the continuation with those sensory details and the gentle wrap-up:
The air carried the fresh, sweet scent of newly cut grass, mingling with the faint aroma of charcoal drifting from someone’s backyard grill. A chorus of cicadas buzzed in the warm evening stillness, and the low orange sun cast long shadows across the quiet cul-de-sac. Fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of neatly kept lawns, and somewhere down the street, a screen door squeaked and slammed shut. The neighbors lingered a while longer, talking about the weather, the Twins’ chances this season, and the early strawberries at the Farmers Market. After five or ten more minutes of “nonsense”, the little gathering began to thin, goodbyes called softly as each person ambled back toward their porch or driveway. Rachel and her grandfather watched them go, then turned and stepped inside, closing the door gently behind them as the last light faded from the sky.
They stepped into the familiar creak of the old farmhouse door. The smell of coffee grounds and pine cleaner greeted them like an old friend. Rachel walked down the hallway toward her room, the one she’d had since she was five years old, when Rafael and Maria had brought her from Puerto Rico to Minnesota.
The walls were the same soft cream. The furniture, solid and old-fashioned. But it was the poster above her bed that caught her eye. She had forgotten how much it still meant to her.
Pray for Luck. Play for Pluck.
Her grandparents’ words. Her compass in a sentence.
Rafael’s voice broke the moment. “You want to call your abuela on FaceTime? I know she’d want to hear your voice.”
Rachel turned toward him. “I talked to her this morning. She said she’d be without signal until nine or ten tonight. They’re out at some little church in the middle of nowhere—no T-Mobile, no Wi-Fi. She said her iPhone goes into SOS mode the second they walk out of their lodge.”
Rafael nodded slowly, then chuckled at himself. “Ah, right. I forgot she told us that. I was wondering why she didn’t answer my text about Mr. Johnson. Guess that explains it.”
They sat down in the living room, the soft tick of the old mantel clock filling the silence.
“How’s work?” Rafael asked, shifting in his armchair. “Everything still going good at Mayo?”
Rachel smiled faintly. “Yeah. It’s been… good. I’m learning a lot, meeting a lot of interesting people.”
He studied her for a moment, thinking about whether to ask the next question. Maria would’ve asked it without hesitation about boyfriends, dating, all that, but Rafael knew better. That wasn’t his department, and he’d just make it awkward.
Instead, he just nodded, rocking gently in his chair. “That’s good. You’re doing good, mija. You’r making Harvard and Wharton wait for you, but they should be able to survive without you for a few semesters.”
Rachel laughed and nodded, replying “yup, that’s exactly true. I just want to stay a year or so longer at Mayo to qualify for competing for their scholarship. I know I’ll win.”
Rafael: “reach for the stars and if you don’t make it,”.
Rachel interrupting with “land on top of your girl, dale!” imitating the Pitbull song.
Rafael didn’t get it because he was not familiar with the song. He was not understanding things. He was a biracial Nuyorican who had split his childhood between New York City and Mayagüez, Puerto Rico; a father who had watched his son begin to build a successful career in Washington, D.C., only to later get a call from Mayo Clinic in Rochester asking him to pick up his granddaughter. He didn’t know where his son and his daughter in law were. He only knew he and Maria suddenly had to relocate to Minnesota to raise a girl caught in a tangle of legal custody proceedings—yet holding a trust from an anonymous donor in her name. His life had been complicated, far more than he could untangle, so not grasping Rachel’s line from a pop song was not going to rattle Rafael.
Rachel looked out the window. Across the yard, the dark outline of Mr. Johnson’s house stood silent. She thought about the computer in his den, the one they’d been working on together; the one holding $100M in Bitcoin. She thought about the sliding glass door in the back, the one he never locked.
Her fingers curled slightly on the armrest. She’d stop by. Quick. In and out.
The computer had to be there. It had to. Worst case—it wasn’t. Worse than worst to make her lose her mind, the computer was there, but the Bitcoin wallet was gone and that had given Mr. Johnson a heart attack.
The password? No problem. She had it. A photo. Safe on her phone.
What should she tell Grandpa about the reason for going into the house. That the lights were on? Hard to tell on a long summer day. Just tell Grandpa she’d check if they were on to shut them off. He’d push back—leave them on for “thieves.”
“Not here. Not tonight.”, she would reply. This was not Puerto Rico.
She’d pivot. Backyard lights. She’d go int to turn them on for “pillos”. She’d also run a safety check. Rafael was a safety freak. She’d check the stove and also make sure nothing was plugged in or on that was not supposed to. She didn’t expect Mr. Johnson to had left a hair curler on, but Grandpa would get the idea. That would work. He’d nod. She’d go in.
Do it fast. And walk out with the computer before anyone knew she’d been there.
What Rachel would find inside Mr. Johnson's house would be far more surprising that what she'd imagined.
Why in the world Mr. Johnson had a picture of a little girl that looked just like her in front of Kindercare in Kingstowne, Virginia? Was that her? Was that guy turned back her dad? Who was the blonde woman by him
What the heck is going on?
TO BE CONTINUED
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