"Well, if it isn't Mr. Miller. How can I help you?" Mr. Dugan asked.

I took a deep breath. "Mr. Dugan, why has Stanley been moved to the very back? And why is he saying you won't let the other kids play building blocks with him?"

Mr. Dugan clicked his tongue, then shrugged and said, "Mr. Miller, no offense, but isn't Stanley being a little too sensitive? The whole class rotates seats—how come I haven't heard anyone else complain? Why is he the only one who finds it a problem?"

I clenched my fists, but Mr. Dugan just fixed me with a smug, knowing look.

"On the other hand, why don't you reconsider the matter with the pears? After all, Stanley still has over a year left at this kindergarten."

By the time I left the office, my palms were slick with cold sweat. It wasn't because I was scared, but because I was barely keeping myself from snapping.

That afternoon, I was in the orchard supervising the packing of the final batch of pears when my phone suddenly buzzed several times.

The parent group chat was blowing up with messages.

"I heard Mr. Miller is a divorced single father? No wonder he's so stingy and petty," said a parent I had never interacted with at all.

Jay chimed in instantly. "I heard his ex-wife ran off, and now he's supporting his family by selling pears. The kindergarten tuition isn't exactly cheap, so how is he even affording it?"

Someone else piled on. "He's probably behind on tuition too. Shouldn't the kindergarten look into it? Or maybe he claims to sell pears on the surface, but behind closed doors he's actually selling…"

Though the person didn't finish the sentence, everyone knew exactly what they were implying.

In an instant, the group chat was no longer filled with just mockery. Rumors were now spiraling out of control as well.

My hand trembled uncontrollably as I gripped the phone.

My wife, Carmen Wiley, didn't run off. She passed away three years ago from sudden high-altitude heart disease while doing technical aid work in the western mountains.

And now these people, who didn't even know her name, were slandering her and fabricating stories about me in the most vile way possible.

I took a deep breath and typed out a message, "First, my family situation is none of your business. I will hold anyone who spreads rumors legally accountable.

"Second, the market price of Green Jewel is over 100 dollars a pound, and yet you're all trying to buy them for five dollars? How is that different from robbery?"

After I sent the message, even more pandemonium broke out in the group chat.

"Over 100 dollars a pound? What do you take us for? Fools?"

"I knew he was just trying to rip us off. No wonder he's been so stubborn about not selling to us!"

Mr. Dugan, who had been silent all along, suddenly dropped a screenshot from a certain shopping app into the group chat.

It read, in bold letters, "Authentic Green Jewel—ten pounds for 50 dollars, free shipping."

"Mr. Miller, these pears are Green Jewel too, and the seller's only selling them for five dollars a pound. Are your pears made of gold or something?" Mr. Dugan replied mockingly.

The others immediately piled on.

"Thank goodness Mr. Dugan is looking out for us. Otherwise, we would've been completely scammed."

"This is hilarious. I wouldn't even pay 50 dollars for that, and he's going on about over 100 dollars a pound?"

My hands were trembling.

They had no idea that my family's Green Jewel was the fruit of centuries-old heirloom trees, and that most of what was sold online was fake goods passed off under a famous name. Even if some were genuine, none could possibly be better than ours.

I typed out a long message explaining the differences between the varieties and why my family's pears were so expensive.

But after I sent it, the message didn't even make a ripple.

"You spin a good story, I'd give you that. But quit trying to bluff us with that nonsense."

No one was willing to listen to me—or rather, they didn't care at all whether what I said was true. Instead, they only believed whatever they wanted.

I thought about it for a long time. In the end, I had no choice but to leave the group chat.

In the yard, my mother, Dora Ortiz, was directing the workers as they loaded the pears onto the truck.

"Douglas, someone from the state government is coming to pick up the order at 3:00 pm. I need you to keep an eye on things when they arrive. Make sure not a single pear goes missing, you hear?" she called out to me.

"Got it, Mom," I replied, stepping forward to help.

The State Department of Agriculture had reserved this batch of pears six months ago. Every single pear had a serial number, weight, and Brix reading on file. At pickup, every crate had to be verified against the records.

This was because these pears were going to be served at the state banquet.

That afternoon, I set off with the shipment.

My mind was entirely focused on these pears. As long as I could get them safely delivered to Windford, the rest could be dealt with slowly.

But just as the truck was traveling along the federal highway, the driver, Mike Seymour, suddenly slammed on the brakes.

"Are these people asking to get themselves killed?" he cursed.

I looked up and saw seven or eight cars parked up ahead, and more than a dozen people standing in the middle of the road with their hands outstretched, blocking the way.

And the person at the very front was none other than Mr. Dugan.

Jay was right behind him, followed by the parents from the kindergarten.

Every single one of them was holding up their phones, their expressions wild with excitement.

Jay led the charge, yelling, "So, you won't sell to us huh, Douglas? Then we'll just help ourselves! Don't worry, we'll make sure to pay you five dollars a pound!"

I frowned. But before I could get a word out, Mr. Dugan spoke up in that measured, insinuating tone of his.

"Folks, these pears were meant for the kindergarten all along. It was Mr. Miller who went back on his word, so there's no need to spare his feelings."

The moment those words left his mouth, the parents' emotions boiled over.

Someone took the lead and charged toward the truck, grabbing at the door handles of the cargo compartment.

Mike frantically blasted the horn, but it did nothing to deter them.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I got out of the truck and stood in front of the cargo hold.

"Are you people insane? This batch of pears was never meant for you! This is robbery! You're all committing a crime!"

But one of the parents, a woman, shoved me hard.

"Oh, give me a break. It's just a truckload of pears—how is that robbery?"

Mr. Dugan chortled. "Alright, alright, everyone. Let's just move the pears. We'll give him the money afterward."

At those words, several parents stepped forward quickly.

Two of them pulled me aside, while the rest swarmed in and yanked open the cargo doors. Some had already laid their hands on the pear crates.

"Don't touch them! You have no idea who these pears are meant for."

"What's the big deal? We're buying them first!

"Yeah! Ever heard of first-come, first-served?"

Mr. Dugan called out leisurely from behind, "Everyone, line up in an orderly fashion! Ten pounds per family—let's not be greedy."

He was as relaxed as if he were organizing a group purchase, when in reality it was nothing short of outright robbery.

I was pulled to the very edge of the crowd. No matter how much I pleaded, I couldn't stop their frenzied behavior.

Just as they were busy dividing up the pears among themselves, police sirens suddenly blared in the distance.

Two police cars cleared the way. The crowd that had just been frantically scrambling for the pears quickly scattered. Following behind the police cars were several black military-plated SUVs.

When the vehicles came to a stop, several state officials stepped out, their presence imposing and commanding even without a word. The moment they saw the pear crates scattered across the ground, their faces contorted with fury.

"These are pears specially ordered for this weekend's state banquet. Who said you could lay a finger on them?"