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“No, ma’am, that is not right! I put too much money in the refund. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I will need you to do something for me or else I will lose my job.”

Jazz tried not to laugh at the pretend panic in the heavily accented voice on the other end of the line.

She adjusted her headset before setting her hands back on the keyboard and typing rapidly while she spoke into the voice modulator.

Her bright young soprano came out as a rough old alto.

“Oh my, I’m so very sorry, dearie. What can I do to make it right? ”

File after file appeared on a long list on her screen. The grin on her face grew with delight, and she deleted them all with a satisfying tap of her finger on the mouse.

“I need you to go to your car and go to Target and get three gift cards in the amount of five hundred dollars each.”

Jazz rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together to stifle her amusement. “Oh my goodness gracious, I don’t have a car.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“No, my grandson borrowed it last week and hasn’t come to see me since.

I think maybe he stole it. Can you imagine someone stealing from an old person like me?

” It got harder to keep her laughter in check.

She hacked into another page on the caller’s computer.

Jackpot! Row by row, she deleted all the banking information she found.

“Can you borrow your neighbor’s car?”

You’re determined to get those gift cards, aren’t you? “I don’t have any neighbors. They all moved away when the industry dried up. No jobs, you see.”

“Please, ma’am, do you have any way to get to the Target?”

She kept typing. “I could use my power chair, but it’ll take a long time. I’m not sure my battery will last all the way there and back. It’s a long trip from my little house out in the boonies. I’ll have to recharge at the store.”

“Please, ma’am, I need to get this money back. Can you do a wire transfer?”

Jazz had finished with the banking files and made one last hacking foray. She found the guy’s phishing program and, with absolute relish, deleted that one in its entirety. Finally, she uploaded one of several custom-designed viruses to the scammer’s computer and let it loose.

“Look at your files, Sparky.” Jazz dropped the fake voice.

“What is happening?” Confusion tinged the man’s words.

“You’re S-O-L, asshole. How dare you try to scam old people out of their hard-earned money. Lowlifes like you should be in prison.”

“Motherfu—”

Jazz didn’t wait to hear the man’s curses. She hung up and leaned back in her padded desk chair. Freya jumped onto her lap and started purring. The black-and-white cat had shown up one afternoon and moved in as if she owned the small house.

“Perfect start to a perfect day, eh?” Jazz stroked the feline’s arching back and listened to the contented rumble.

A text message popped up on her screen, and she glanced at it.

Bomber123: I got four last night. What did you get?

Jazz leaned forward and typed one-handed.

Jazzyhands: Only two, but I screwed one up big-time a few minutes ago. Deleted their whole friggin’ program.

Bomber123: No shit? Bet that’s going to set them back awhile.

Jazzyhands: That’s the point, right?

Bomber123: Fuck yeah. You know that call center we got a few weeks ago is still out of commission?

Jazzyhands: That’s good to hear. It took four of us, but tags worked well in taking those down. I think we should team up more often and go for the bigger fish. It’ll save a lot more than these little ones.

Bomber123: I think your right.

Jazzyhands: You’re

Bomber123: :-p~ Pbbbbbbt!

Jazzyhands: Wuv U 2. Anyhoo, I gotta go. The working class needs their morning cuppa cuppa.

Bomber123: Fine. Go be a part of capitalistic society.

Jazz didn’t reply, just shut down the computer and stood up from her desk.

She tapped the Starship Enterprise hanging from the ceiling with her finger before stretching her arms high overhead.

Her spine popped and cracked as the bones aligned themselves.

Freya meowed in protest at being dislodged from her happy perch.

“Sorry, baby. I gotta go make the donuts, as they say,” Jazz informed the cat as she sauntered into the bathroom in her sleep tank and panties.

The old house was built in the early 1900s and not much more than livable when Jazz found it and fell in love.

The biggest reason she wanted this house showed in the greenway just outside the front that faced the Allegheny River.

She got to view the slow-moving water every morning when she woke up and peered out her bedroom window.

The old plumbing had been updated sometime during the 1970s based on the gold-colored tub and tiles in the bathroom.

As long as the water was hot, Jazz didn’t care about the outdated look.

She had bigger issues to handle. Some paint, area rugs over the worn linoleum, and lots of her favorite sci-fi knickknacks scattered around fit her decor theme. Nothing else was needed.

The shower streamed over her black-and-blue hair. She did the bright ombre as a dare in college and liked the contrast against her dark roots enough to keep it. Ten years later, her parents still gave her disapproving looks when she made time to visit. Her younger sister flat-out hated it.

“You’re almost thirty years old, Jasmine. Don’cha think it’s time for you to get serious about your life?” Liz had criticized on more than one occasion.

Yeah, like she got serious about hers ? Three kids by two men and one pending divorce had Jazz’s younger sister moving back in with their parents, and she showed no signs of making any progress on her own.

Her sour attitude toward anything and everything gave Jazz all the more reason to keep the different color.

The youngest sibling, her brother, Hugo, loved her hair and made a point of telling everyone as much at the forced family gatherings. The next one would be on Easter Sunday in a few weeks. Jazz dreaded it already and was trying to figure a way out. No doubt Hugo was doing the same.

She ran a hand through the thick locks. “I should totally do a touch-up. Do I dare add some purple or pink?”

Freya jumped up and sat in the sink on the small vanity, since there was no room anywhere else for her. Jazz towel-dried her waves and ran a comb through the wet strands. “Don’t judge. You get free room and board, yeah?”

Fifteen minutes later, she finished dressing and was set to go. “Love you, Frey-Frey.”

The cat meowed in protest.

“Shit, I forgot. Hold on.”

Jazz ripped open a cat food pouch and dumped it into a small bowl. “Later, tater.”

The house sat in a dip, and the back faced the narrow street with a short bridge from the road to a second-floor entrance.

There was no yard to mow, just the occasional trimming of the brush that grew right up to the outer walls of her house.

The only place for her to park her car was a recess spot off the street some yards away.

Living alone in this tiny Pittsburgh suburb had never bothered her.

Since she didn’t have to cross any of the river bridges, most of the time, she simply biked the half mile to work.

The sun peeked over the horizon, sending pale rays of color across the black sky.

Frequent insomnia made early mornings her thing throughout her twenties.

She loved being awake before the sun to watch it rise as she started a new day.

It wasn’t odd for her to take catnaps during the day or just after dinner so she’d be up when most people were still dreaming.

She pedaled down the empty streets, pausing only to tuck the scarf over her mouth and nose.

The cold, crisp air blew against her face.

It was that time of year between winter and spring where it was anyone’s guess what the weather would be.

By the afternoon, the sun might raise the temperature to summer levels.

She hoped the chilly mornings were on their way out as she coasted across Baker Ave and into the back lot of the coffee and cake shop.

This older neighborhood held no appeal for the tourists.

A scattered mix of tightly placed row houses and industrial businesses dotted the long stretches that gave off a “keep driving” vibe.

It also helped that a big steel plant stood just a few miles down the road.

Workers often came in between shifts to grab coffees and cakes or just sit for a little while in a place with cleaner air to breathe.

Bill and Madge Comer owned the bakery and coffee shop, simply named Coffee and Cakes. Madge was already in the building, mixing ingredients in a large bowl. “Grab those sheets, eh?” she said when Jazz entered.

The yeasty smell hit Jazz’s nose as she brought the long baking pans of risen flat dough to Madge’s workstation. Moravian sugar cakes were a specialty of hers, and some people drove miles out of their way to pick up the traditional European treat.

A tray of twisted square soft pretzels lay on the table ready to go in the display case next to an assortment of miniature shoofly pies, whoopie pies, bagels, and other Pittsburgh treats.

Jazz grabbed a plain apron. “You stay up all night again?”

Madge shrugged. “Someone’s got to get the work done.” The large woman’s face had long bags under the eyes and a worn-down demeanor. She started jabbing her fingers into the flattened dough to make the surface bumpy with lots of divots.

“Do you ever sleep?”

Another shrug from Madge as she carefully poured the butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar mixture over the raw cake, watching it fill the holes. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”