If I paid them off, what would happen to the kids?

Besides, none of this was my fault. Why should I pay a single cent?

The man didn't bother acknowledging me. He climbed straight into the cargo bed and started unloading.

Riiip!

He tore through the packing tape the women from the charity had carefully sealed, shredding it like it was nothing.

When he saw the cheap cotton jackets inside, the disappointment on his face was impossible to miss.

"The hell is this? You couldn't haul anything worth a damn?"

He tossed the box off the truck in disgust, then cracked open another. And another.

Every single one held the same kind of thing—clothes, quilts, and several boxes of secondhand books.

"Are you kidding me? You some kind of junk collector? Everything on this truck is garbage nobody wants!"

He hurled the boxes off the truck one after another. They tumbled over the edge of the road, bouncing down the cliff face until they vanished into the ravine below.

My chest ached so badly I could barely breathe.

That wasn't junk. Those were donations—love and goodwill from people all across my hometown, given to the children at the orphanage.

I tried to climb onto the truck to stop him, but the other drivers thought I was making a run for it. They tackled me to the ground and pinned my shoulders down so hard I couldn't move an inch.

Someone spoke up, voice low and casual.

"You know how truckers are. Crafty. They always stash the valuable stuff up front and pack the worthless crap in the back."

"Why don't you check the cab?"

My eyes went wide.

There were valuables up front—several specimens of wild ginseng.

But those weren't cargo. I'd promised to deliver them to the agricultural research institute on behalf of my town. They were rare seedlings with enormous scientific value.

If that animal got his hands on them—

I couldn't finish the thought. My breath locked in my throat and I wrenched free of the men holding me down, scrambling toward the truck on all fours.

I didn't make it. Hands grabbed me from below and yanked me back. Palms cracked across my face, left and right, one slap after another.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Listen up! Even if you ran to the ends of the earth, you're paying for our damages first!"

Blood streamed down my face, but I kept my neck stiff and my voice steady.

"This is my truck. You have no right to touch anything on it!"

"Get down from there right now! Or I'm calling the cops and reporting every last one of you for robbery!"

My eyes burned with a ferocity that could kill. I wanted to rip the man off that truck with my bare hands.

He wasn't the least bit intimidated. He hopped down, walked over, and patted my cheek with an open palm.

"Oh, look at that—he's panicking. That means I was right. There is something valuable up front."

He turned to the crowd. "Boys, quit standing around. Get up there and give me a hand. We find a few boxes of the good stuff and we'll have our money back just like that."

The promise of money was all it took. Several drivers climbed into the cargo bed alongside him and began tearing through everything without a shred of restraint.

I watched, helpless, as box after box—each one filled with hope meant for those orphans—was flung off the truck and tossed over the cliff like garbage.

Every single one felt like a piece of my heart being ripped out.

Looking at these people, no better than a pack of thieves, I knew the truth: even though the accident wasn't my fault, I had no choice but to back down.

"Stop! I'll pay! I'll pay, alright?!"

The man clapped his hands and jumped off the truck. "See? Was that so hard?"

"Five hundred thousand. Wire transfer or cash?"

My hand froze halfway to my pocket.

I'd braced myself for a steep number, but his demand still knocked the wind out of me.

I glanced at his SUV—some beat-up domestic model that had clearly changed hands more times than anyone could count. A new one would've run maybe fifteen grand, tops. I tried to reason with him.

"That car cost maybe ten, fifteen thousand new. Don't you think five hundred thousand is a little excessive?"

He answered with a boot to my chest.

"You almost killed me, you piece of shit! You think half a million is too much?"

"This is murder! Murder gets you the death penalty! I'm giving you a chance to buy your worthless life back, and you don't know when to be grateful? You're still running your mouth?"

"Pay up! Or every last thing on this truck is ours!"

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to get up and beat the life out of this piece of trash—the one who'd been driving illegally, pinned the blame on me, and was now trying to shake me down.

But I knew I couldn't.

That truck didn't just carry supplies for the orphanage. It carried the seedlings—irreplaceable, priceless seedlings.

I couldn't play hero and let the people who trusted me suffer the loss.

I forced myself to my feet, swallowing the agony that screamed through every inch of my body, and choked down my pride.

"But I don't have that kind of money—"

A boot slammed into my chest and sent me flying.

"Then why the hell are you wasting my time?"

"Boys, keep searching! This punk's got something valuable stashed up front!"

The man climbed back onto the truck and started hurling every cardboard box over the side, one after another, like he was taking out his rage on them.

I tried to stop him, but my broken ribs made it nearly impossible to even sit up.

Claire—the teacher whose head the man had split open earlier—had already bandaged her wound. She knelt beside me and helped me upright.

"Easy," she said. "Don't push yourself."

"I already called the police. They'll be here any minute. These guys won't be strutting around much longer."

But I shook my head and pointed toward the front of the cab.

"There's a crate of research seedlings up there. They cannot get their hands on it."

Claire's eyes widened. She started toward the cab to help me move the crate down.

But the man on the truck caught our gestures out of the corner of his eye, and his face lit up.

"I know where this little rat hid the good stuff!"

He went straight for the cab, pulled out the crate, and got ready to pry it open.

My heart climbed into my throat.

Claire stepped forward.

"Stop!"

"This cargo belongs to him. What you're doing is robbery. Aren't you afraid of getting arrested? That's eight to ten years behind bars."

The man laughed.

"A debt's a debt. Only fair he pays up."

"Besides, this lowlife rammed into me first! I could've had him charged with murder, and he wants to accuse me of robbery?"

His shamelessness made my blood boil. I forced the words out again.

"I didn't hit you! You were driving illegally. You caused the accident!"

That set him off. He jumped down from the truck, raised the crate over his head, and brought it crashing toward my skull.

"You just don't quit, do you?"

"A killer with this much attitude—I'm gonna teach you the lesson your parents never did!"

I didn't dodge. Instinct made me throw my hands up to catch the crate.

But it smashed through my fingers, cracked against my head, and shattered completely.

Ginseng seedlings dangled from my hair, my clothes, scattered across the dirt.

In that instant, my heart sank to the bottom of an abyss.

The man looked at the mess on the ground and curled his lip with total indifference.

"The hell? I thought it was something worth a damn. Just a bunch of rotten weeds."

"If you'd told me your whole truck was full of garbage, I wouldn't have bothered climbing up there."

Then, as if to make a point, he ground the last surviving seedlings into the dirt beneath his heel.

I stared at the seedlings—every single one of them destroyed.

The fury inside me went quiet. Still. Cold.

I looked the man dead in the eye and spoke, slow and deliberate.

"You're finished."

"Ten lifetimes in prison wouldn't be enough to pay for what you just did."

He didn't take a single word of it seriously. He was still posturing, still puffing his chest.

"The hell are you babbling about now?"

"I'm telling you—today, you either pay up, or you don't leave here breathing!"

He raised his fist, ready to hit me again.

A voice cut through the air from behind him like a whip crack.

"Back off!"

Out of nowhere, over a dozen semis had rolled in and formed a wall around the scene.