Chapter 4: The Setup

She grabbed my hand, pounding the ground with the other like a character in a daytime TV meltdown. The echo bounced off the concrete. She looked straight out of a rerun of Law & Order: Community Edition.

Her shoulders shook, words tumbling out between hiccupping breaths: “Young man, I’m sorry, I let you down... I live in the next building, usually make a living collecting cans and bottles... That day, after picking up recycling in your building, I lost my mind and took your battery home for myself. But just a few days later, while charging it at home, it exploded because of a quality problem and seriously hurt my son and husband..."

The sobs drew an even bigger crowd. Someone started filming on their phone. My ears burned. I could feel the judgment in every sideways glance, every whispered word.

It took me a second to figure out what she wanted. Basically, she was trying to rope me in. The whole sob story was a setup, and the crowd was eating it up. My stomach twisted. It was like she wanted me to dig my own grave and hand her the shovel.

Seeing my expression, she wiped her tears and choked out: “I’m not here to make you take responsibility, just want you to give me your scooter’s purchase receipt. After all, it’s your battery’s problem, right? I’ll go to the manufacturer, I’ll go... I know I’m at fault, you’re a victim too, how could I blame you?” She pressed her palms together, pleading. Her words were syrupy, but her eyes darted, calculating.

She kept stressing “your battery,” and I felt the trap closing. For a second, I almost softened, but then I spotted my neighbor—a retired firefighter—catch my eye and give a tiny shake of his head. Barely a twitch, but it was enough. My pulse slowed. I knew what he meant: don’t fall for it.

I calmed down and thought it through. The scooter was gone, but if I got mixed up in this, what if she tried to pin the whole mess on me? That’d be a disaster. I pictured a courtroom, her pointing at me, blaming me for everything.

So I instinctively waved her off: “Ma’am, you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t have a scooter—I ride rental bikes to work.” I forced a polite smile, trying to keep things from blowing up.

I held up the blue bike app on my phone, the little spinning wheel animation mocking the whole situation.

She stared at me, stunned: “You... you actually...” Her mouth worked like she was chewing lemons. A couple people in the crowd snickered.

I ignored her and made a beeline for the nearest rental bike. My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear the traffic.

...

On the way, I texted my childhood friend in Chicago. She always knew what to say in a crisis.

“Are you serious? You were really going to give her the receipt so she could go to the manufacturer?” She replied instantly, followed by a stream of facepalm emojis.

“You’d better thank that guy who shook his head at you. If you’d given her the receipt, you’d be in real trouble by now.” Then a Judge Judy gif popped up, rolling her eyes.

After my friend’s explanation, the goosebumps on my arms had nothing to do with the morning chill.

Turns out, the old lady wasn’t as innocent as she acted. The explosion was on her, not the manufacturer. She probably wired it up to some sketchy charger, not the right voltage. You can’t blame hardware for human error.

If she got the receipt, it would only prove the battery was mine—nothing else. I’d be the fall guy in a heartbeat.

She wanted the receipt so she could blame everything on me, sue me, and make me pay. Someone had to take the fall, and she wanted it to be me. Oldest hustle in the book: find a mark, pass the blame, collect the payout.

Sometimes, outsiders see things more clearly. My friend’s texts were a cold shower: wake up and smell the scam.

After hearing my friend’s analysis, I was furious. I gripped the handlebars tighter, wishing I’d never met Granny Wilson.

A thief trying to frame me so brazenly! Anyone who knew the truth would know she stole from me, but to everyone else, it’d look like I’d ruined her whole family. The unfairness stung, worse than losing the battery in the first place.