Chapter 2: The Day the World Froze

When I first realized my scooter’s battery was gone, I just stood there, stunned. For a split second, the whole world froze. I stared at the empty compartment, keys jingling in my fist, blinking like maybe if I looked hard enough, the battery would just reappear.

Are you kidding me?

I’d run home for a quick nap on my lunch break, and by the time I needed to get back to work, my ride was dead. The parking lot buzzed with cars and the sweet, sharp smell of fresh-cut grass from the landscapers, but none of it mattered. My scooter wasn’t going anywhere.

Trying to hang onto what little professional pride I had left, I took half a day off and stormed into the apartment management office, fueled by caffeine and righteous anger. I didn’t even care if people heard me—I needed answers, now.

That scooter was more than just a ride. It was the first thing I bought with my first real paycheck. I still remembered zipping home on a blazing summer day, hair flying, feeling like anything was possible. Now it felt like someone had ripped away my independence.

No way was I letting this slide. Not after I’d paid for every part myself, not when it was the only ride I’d ever truly called my own.

I barged into the office, heart racing. The place reeked of burnt coffee and Lysol, a faded recycling poster hanging crooked above the desk. The property manager—a woman snoozing under a puffy coat—jerked awake, hair sticking up in every direction. Her desk was buried under unopened mail and a stack of HOA newsletters no one ever read.

She glared at me, annoyed: “Alright, alright, what footage do you want to see...?” Her half-eaten sandwich sat next to her phone, making the place smell even worse.

But when she saw how upset I was, her tone switched: “Listen, we’ve had a lot of battery thefts lately. We posted it in the Facebook group, put up notices in the bike room, warned everyone to be careful... How many times do we have to say it? Didn’t you see?” She sounded like every HOA manager who loves rules but never enforces them.

I was so mad, I actually laughed. “See what? You never do anything—no police reports, no extra patrols, just another paper notice. You think that’ll stop thieves? So what, am I supposed to lug my battery up to the fifth floor and lock it in a safe every day?” My voice bounced off the linoleum, a guy passing in the hall poking his head in before thinking better of it.

She was too mad to argue, just stabbed her finger at the ancient computer. “Go check yourself. Don’t talk to me.” Sticky notes from three tenants ago still clung to the monitor.

Honestly, the property staff here act like they own the place, always making things difficult for tenants. Try finding them when you actually need help—but when it’s time to collect fees for landscaping, cleaning, or package storage, they’re all waiting with their hands out. If there were an award for world’s most useless management company, they’d win, no contest.

But even in this supposedly fancy complex, my scooter battery vanished in broad daylight. All it took was a lunch break. Makes you wonder what else people could get away with—maybe swipe a grill from the patio or walk off with someone’s Amazon order, and nobody would blink an eye.

Normally I’d argue with her, but I was too worried about my scooter to care. My heart hammered in my chest, and I could practically taste my own frustration.

I rushed to the computer and scrolled back the footage to when I’d parked—12:10 p.m. My hands shook on the mouse, the screen flickering like some low-budget detective show.

That’s when I’d just left work. My office is only ten minutes away, and I didn’t have to clock back in until 3. Of course I’d rush home for a nap—running on five hours of sleep and stale gas station coffee.

Luckily, the camera caught me parking and hopping off, my faded blue helmet dangling from the handlebars, same as always.

But then—bad luck. After years of sun and rain, the camera had slipped. It should’ve shown the whole scooter, but now only caught the front and the basket. The battery compartment was hidden by my windproof blanket, so the thief just crouched under it and calmly removed the battery. Smooth as butter, like he’d done it a thousand times.

He looked so practiced—if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was just fixing his own scooter. The way he wiped his hands on his jeans and glanced around, almost bored.

I was furious. The woman beside me sidled up, sounding smug: “This camera really knows what to film, huh?” She seemed to get a kick out of my bad luck. Definitely the type to gossip about every parking violation.

I shot her a glare and checked frame by frame. In one little patch not covered by the blanket, I caught a glimpse of white hair.

I snapped a photo with my phone for evidence, thinking—white hair? What was this, a geriatric crime ring? Or just some kid who went too hard with the bleach?

Could it be one of those punk teens with bleached hair? Or maybe just some shameless older guy? I pictured a little troublemaker in a puffy jacket, grinning as he made off with my battery.

But there are so many little delinquents stealing things these days. How was I supposed to find the right one? It’s not like I could put up flyers: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS HAIR?

The investigation went nowhere. It was just a small battery—barely worth a couple hundred bucks—too minor for a police report. The cops wouldn’t even care. All I could do was grit my teeth and pretend it didn’t sting, like getting robbed was just another bill to pay. The world moved on, and I had to, too—though every time I saw someone on a scooter, my blood pressure spiked.

After that, I couldn’t even stand to look at my scooter. I sold the empty frame for cheap and started commuting by rental bike instead. There’s something cathartic about pedaling hard with music blasting in your earbuds, even if the bikes always smelled faintly of someone else’s sweat.

Saved money, got some exercise—two birds with one stone. Plus, no battery for anyone to steal. My friends joked I was turning into a real city cyclist—soon I’d be ranting about potholes and demanding more bike lanes at town hall.