The early morning streets of Manhattan buzzed with a rhythm that seemed choreographed by the city itself—honking cabs, hurried footsteps, distant sirens, and the faint aroma of breakfast wafting through the air. Amidst this vibrant chaos, parked on a quiet corner of 42nd Street, a modest food truck painted in bright yellows and reds sat.
Seventeen-year-old Marcus Turner wiped his hands on a faded towel, adjusting the baseball cap shielding his eyes from the rising sun.
Turner's Bodega on Wheels.
A handmade sign with that name was propped against the open window. It was slightly crooked, painted on a piece of reclaimed plywood in bold, red brushstrokes, the tail end of the "s" curling like a wisp of barbecue smoke. Underneath, in smaller letters: Real Food. Real Flavor. No Frills.
"Yo, Marcus! That brisket rice bowl still on the menu?" a man in a Mets cap called out from the front of the line.
"Still got four left. You know the drill, Jerome — speak now or cry later." Marcus hollered.
"Then put my name on two," Jerome said, turning to high-five the woman behind him in line. "Told you he was legit."
There was a reason why he was so excited. It was because he had never tasted such heavenly food ever in his life and he couldn't wait to show it to his girlfriend who had her ears drenched in blood listening to him speaking about how good the food was here. And it was not only him. But others too.
Word had gotten out fast.
In just a month, Marcus's truck had gone from nothing to a street food sensation. Bloggers called him "The Flavor Prodigy." One food critic dubbed his blackened catfish sandwich "a five-star meal served in a brown paper boat." But Marcus didn't seem to be moved by his newfound fame in the streets at all. He just served the food with the smile on his face.
"Next up!" he called, already knowing who it was.
"You remember my order?"
"Spicy shrimp po' boy, extra pickles, side of sweet plantains. How could I forget? You've ordered it five times this week."
"And I'll keep ordering it until I can replicate that sauce at home." The woman said.
"Good luck with that." Marcus replied. It was impossible for anyone to replicate what he had produced. Even if the souls of Anthony Bourdain, Gordon Ramsey and other famous chefs came in together in a single person, they would still fail at the end. "That recipe's more guarded than Fort Knox."
Laughter rippled through the line.
"Marcus," someone else called, "you ever think of opening a restaurant?"
"I'm standing in one. Besides, I love my independence here." Marcus replied.
That earned a round of claps and nods, someone shouting, "Tell 'em!" from the back of the line. The air around the truck was thick with scent — spice, smoke, a hint of citrus — and thicker still with something rarer in the city: community. Marcus handed off an order of loaded yucca fries and took a breath. Just a second to feel the moment. The laughter. The flavor. The heat of the grill.
He looked up to see a kid no older than ten staring at him from the sidewalk, wide-eyed. The kid's wide eyes were locked onto Marcus.
"You the chef?" the boy asked, his voice barely audible over the clatter of the city.
Marcus leaned out the window, resting his elbows on the edge of the truck. "Yeah," he said with an easy grin. "Name's Marcus."
"I wanna do what you do," the kid said.
"Then I wish you all my luck. But remember to love what you do, not force yourself to love anything or anyone." Marcus replied.
The boy nodded solemnly like he'd just been handed a sacred mission. His mother called him from across the street, and he scurried off, but not before turning back to shout, "You're awesome!" She never expected a young boy like Marcus would have such wise words.
Marcus smiled, then wiped his hands on his towel again. The day rolled on. By sunset, the line finally dwindled, and the last of the brisket rice bowls were long gone. Marcus locked the serving window, the clang of metal echoing like the end of a show.
Inside the truck, Marcus moved with a quieter energy, cleaning the counters, scrubbing down the grill, stacking used containers and supplies. He hummed to himself while playing the music he had put on his ears through the wireless headphones. By the time he climbed into the driver's seat, the city was painted in blues and oranges, and the radio buzzed with late-night soul. He started the truck and pulled away from the curb.
It was a long drive to the Greenpoint across the Williamsburg Bridge, where a narrow lane led to a modest single-story home tucked behind a row of townhouses. The house was plain, with fading white paint and a small lawn that hadn't been trimmed in weeks. What made it stand out was the garage — unusually large, built with just enough clearance for a food truck to roll in.
Marcus backed it in slow, hands steady on the wheel. The garage door rattled down behind him with a loud thunk, sealing away the world outside. Inside the house, silence greeted him. No lights flicked on automatically. No voices called his name. Just the familiar creak of floorboards and the soft hum of the fridge.
Marcus sighed when the reality had hit him, after he sat on the couch. He was after all alone in this world. His parents and himself were in a car accident one and a half month ago. He was supposed to die with his parents when a huge truck ran a red light and T-boned their car. Actually, all of the three died and the dead Marcus was brought to life almost instantly because the real Marcus had died and the Marcus from the real world had transmigrated to old Marcus' body.