Life Is Jacob’s Game
CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN OUTSIDE THE HOUSE
A debt, a warning, and one very unfortunate pair of sneakers.
Written by Regina Mgingwa
Jacob Brooks had never run so fast in his life.
He had run from dogs, angry shopkeepers, one furious security guard, and a woman who claimed he had stolen her parking space. That last accusation was particularly confusing because Jacob did not own a car, a driver's license, or enough money to purchase a steering wheel.
But this was different.
A man who collected debts was standing outside his mother's house, and someone had just called to warn Jacob away from a businessman he had met less than an hour earlier.
For once, Jacob wished his life would stop developing new chapters.
His left sneaker squeaked as he turned the corner.
"Please," he gasped at the shoe. "Today is not the day to advertise my location."
The shoe squeaked again.
"Traitor."
When he reached his street, he slowed down and looked across the road. A dark blue sedan sat near the curb. Beside the gate of his house stood a broad-shouldered man in a brown jacket. He had a shaved head, a gold watch, and the patient expression of someone who had ruined several people's afternoons professionally.
His name was Curtis Bell.
Jacob knew him as the man who had lent Malik money to repair a motorcycle and somehow transformed a two-hundred-dollar debt into a problem large enough to frighten an entire neighborhood.
Malik stood near the porch, trying to look invisible.
He was not succeeding.
Jacob approached with the confident walk of a man who had a plan. In reality, his plan consisted of three things: smile, speak quickly, and hope nobody asked for money.
"Mr. Bell!" he called. "You look well."
Curtis turned.
"You look late."
"I was conducting business."
"You were running."
"Business can be very physical."
Malik covered his face with one hand.
"Jacob, please stop helping."
Curtis stepped closer. "You owe me money."
"Technically, Malik owes you money."
"And you guaranteed he'd pay."
Jacob looked at Malik.
Malik suddenly found the ground fascinating.
"I said he was a good guy," Jacob replied. "I did not say he was a bank."
"You told me he would pay by Friday."
"And Friday is a very flexible concept when you're dealing with financial hardship."
Curtis did not laugh.
Jacob decided that his audience might not appreciate sophisticated humor.
"Listen," he said, lowering his voice. "Give us until tomorrow evening. We'll bring you something."
"Money."
"Something that can eventually become money."
"Jacob," Malik whispered, "you're making it worse."
"I'm negotiating."
"You're negotiating with your funeral."
Curtis looked between them. Then he pointed a thick finger at Jacob.
"Tomorrow. Six o'clock. If you have nothing, I start taking things that belong to you."
Jacob glanced at his sneakers.
"I would appreciate it if you started with the left one."
Curtis stared at him for a long moment.
"You think you're funny."
"I think I'm terrified. The jokes are a side effect."
For a fraction of a second, Curtis almost smiled. Then the expression disappeared.
He walked to his sedan and drove away.
Jacob waited until the car turned the corner before allowing his knees to become weak.
"I hate your plans," Malik said.
"You love my plans."
"Your last plan involved selling bottled water outside a funeral because you said people were already emotionally dehydrated."
"And we sold eleven bottles."
"We were asked to leave the cemetery."
"But not before making eleven sales."
Malik shook his head. He was nineteen, taller than Jacob, and possessed the rare ability to look exhausted even when he had done absolutely nothing. His mother called it a gift. Jacob called it the face of a man who had just remembered his homework.
"Where were you?" Malik asked.
Jacob showed him Richard Hale's business card.
Malik read it. His eyebrows rose.
"Northstar Solutions? You met a startup owner?"
"He invited me to his office."
"Why?"
"Because I'm charming."
"You have a hole in your jacket."
"A ventilation feature."
Malik looked at the card again. "Wait. Northstar Solutions? My cousin applied for a job there. He said the company was having problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"He didn't say. He just told me the office was strange. People worked late, nobody talked about the owners, and one night he heard an argument in the basement."
Jacob's smile faded slightly.
"What happened?"
"He quit before his first day was over."
Jacob examined the business card. It was thick, expensive, and printed with a silver star. On the back, someone had written an address in blue ink.
Below the address was a short handwritten note.
Ask for Daniel. Come alone.
Jacob looked up.
"Did you know about this?"
"No."
"Good."
"Why is that good?"
"Because if you knew, I'd have to question our friendship. And I don't have the money for new friends."
They went inside.
Denise was in the kitchen, removing her work shoes. She looked at Jacob, then Malik, then the business card.
"Why does this house always feel like the waiting room of a police station?" she asked.
"Atmosphere," Jacob said.
"Jacob."
"A business opportunity."
"Does the business opportunity pay?"
Jacob hesitated.
"Not immediately."
"Then it is a hobby."
Malik laughed. Jacob gave him a look that promised future revenge.
Denise sat down. For a moment, the tiredness in her face seemed deeper than usual.
"Your father used to talk like that," she said quietly. "Always another idea. Another deal. Another person who promised that everything would be different next month."
Jacob stopped smiling.
His father had left when Jacob was twelve. Not with a dramatic argument or a slammed door. He had simply gone one morning and never returned. At first, he called. Then the calls became less frequent. Eventually, even his birthday messages stopped.
Jacob rarely asked about him. Every question seemed to make his mother older.
"I'm not Dad," he said.
"I know." Denise reached for his hand. "I just don't want you confusing being clever with being untouchable."
He looked down at their hands.
"I'm trying to help, Mom."
"I know that too."
For once, Jacob had no joke ready.
That evening, he sat at the kitchen table with a notebook, a pen, and the six dollars he had left. Malik sat opposite him, eating crackers that Denise had specifically told him not to touch.
"We need money by tomorrow," Malik said.
"We need more than money. We need a business."
"A business that makes money."
"Exactly."
"And one that doesn't get us arrested."
Jacob considered this requirement.
"You're making entrepreneurship unnecessarily complicated."
He wrote three words on the notebook page:
PEOPLE. PROBLEMS. PAYMENT.
"Every business starts with somebody having a problem," Jacob said. "If we find a problem people care enough about to pay to solve, we have a chance."
Malik chewed thoughtfully.
"My problem is that I owe money."
"That's not a business. That's a customer complaint."
"Can I complain about the interest?"
"You can complain all the way to bankruptcy."
Jacob began listing the businesses they knew. The barber lost appointments because customers forgot their times. The restaurant mixed up delivery orders. The laundromat regularly misplaced receipts. A woman down the street sold cakes but had no reliable way to take advance orders.
None of these problems looked impressive. There were no billion-dollar inventions hiding in the notebook, no secret formula, no billionaire waiting to hand them a check.
Just ordinary people losing time and money in ordinary ways.
Jacob tapped the pen against the table.
"Tomorrow, we're going to talk to them."
"And if they don't want to talk?"
"We listen."
Malik stared at him.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Jacob?"
"I'm evolving."
"Please evolve into somebody who can pay Curtis Bell."
At eleven forty-seven that night, Jacob's phone lit up on the table.
An email had arrived from an unknown sender.
There was no subject line. No greeting. Only one sentence and an attached photograph.
Do not go to Northstar tomorrow unless you want to learn what happened to the last boy who asked questions.
Jacob opened the photograph.
It showed a narrow basement corridor. The walls were stained, the lights were dim, and a metal door stood at the far end. Someone had drawn a large black star on the door.
At the bottom of the image, a date had been written in red.
Three months earlier.
Jacob zoomed in. Near the wall lay a white sneaker.
Not just any sneaker.
It looked exactly like the pair worn by the young man in the photograph Malik had shown him earlier that evening—the cousin who had quit Northstar before his first day was over.
Jacob's throat tightened.
He called Malik.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Then a sound came from the hallway outside the kitchen.
Three slow knocks.
Jacob froze.
His mother was asleep. The house was dark. The front door was locked.
Three more knocks.
He picked up the nearest weapon he could find: a wooden spoon.
He looked at it.
"If this is how I die," he whispered, "please don't let the news show the weapon."
The hallway light flickered.
Something scraped slowly against the other side of the door.
Then a voice whispered his name.
"Jacob..."
He stopped breathing.
The voice sounded like a man trying to speak through a mouthful of water.
"You shouldn't have taken the card."
Jacob backed away, gripping the wooden spoon with both hands.
The door handle began to turn.
And from somewhere inside the dark hallway, a second voice answered the first.
"He's already here."
END OF CHAPTER TWO
The Door in the Dark
Someone knows Jacob has the Northstar business card. But is the danger outside his house human—or something far worse?
Continue to Chapter Three
READ CHAPTER THREE →Written by Regina Mgingwa | Published by TaleNest · www.talenest.co.tz