Leo left the corner mart feeling ten feet tall, clutching his first, hard-earned dollar fifty. He had done it. He was a bona fide interdimensional trader. Now, if he could just scale this operation from 'laughably small' to 'at least pays rent,' he'd be golden.
Back in the store, Mr. Kim watched the boy leave, a sad shake of his head rippling his jowls. Poor kid, he thought, picking up the soda bottle. So desperate. Bringing me tap water in a bottle and calling it 'artisanal.'
He glanced at the bottle. It was probably filtered, at least. The city water had a distinct chlorine taste, and this had smelled like nothing. Maybe the kid had a Brita filter. A buck fifty wasn't much of a loss if it just sat there. A tourist might buy it for the novelty.
He finished his newspaper article and felt the familiar, deep ache in his lower back flare up. Sixty-three years old, twelve hours a day on his feet, lifting crates of soda and boxes of canned goods—the fatigue was a constant companion, a heavy blanket he could never quite shake off.
He sighed, pushing himself up to restock the chip aisle. He felt sluggish. On a whim, he looked at the bottle of Leo's "special" water. Thirsty anyway. Might as well.
Unscrewing the cap, he poured a generous amount into the stained coffee mug he always kept by the register. He swirled it around, still half-expecting to see dirt appear from nowhere. Seeing none, he took a large gulp.
He paused.
The water was… extraordinary. It was crisp and smooth, without a hint of minerals or chemicals. It wasn't just the absence of bad taste; it was the presence of an intense, life-affirming purity. It was like drinking a memory of water, the way water was supposed to be. It went down with an effortless, quenching slide that made the Fiji and Evian he sold feel like gritty mud in comparison.
He took another long swallow, draining half the mug. A pleasant coolness spread through his chest, but it was followed by something else. A subtle warmth that seeped into his bones, gentle and persistent. He rolled his shoulders, and the usual grinding protest from his vertebrae was… quieter. The deep, gnawing ache in his back hadn't vanished, but the sharp edges had been sanded off, smoothed into a dull, manageable throb.
The leaden weight of his afternoon fatigue seemed to lift, not drastically, but noticeably, like someone had opened a window in a stuffy room.
"Huh," he grunted, genuinely surprised. He stared at the bottle with a new, professional respect. It wasn't just good water. It was… effective.
The bell on the door chirped. A construction worker named Frank, covered in a fine layer of drywall dust, clomped in. Frank was a regular, usually grabbing a giant energy drink and a bag of pretzels.
"Hey, Kim," Frank boomed, his voice raspy. "Gimme the biggest, baddest can of Zzzt! you got. I'm dyin' over here."
Mr. Kim looked at the garish, brightly colored cans of caffeine and chemicals. Then he looked at the clear, pure bottle of Leo's water on the counter. A business instinct, honed over forty years of retail, flickered to life.
"Frank," Mr. Kim said, his voice even and steady. "Forget that poison. Try this."
He held up the soda bottle.
Frank eyed it with deep skepticism. "That's water. Water is for plants."
"This is different," Mr. Kim said. He decided to lean into Leo's ridiculous story. "Special water. From a private spring upstate. Very clean. Makes you feel better."
"Better how? Does it have taurine and B vitamins?"
"It has... minerals," Mr. Kim improvised, feeling absurd. "Natural energy. Not like that chemical junk that gives you a crash. Just... try it. Same price. Two dollars."
Frank grumbled, but his exhaustion won out over his skepticism. Anything was worth a shot. "Fine, fine. I'll bite. If I fall asleep on a scaffold, it's on you."
He paid with a crumpled five, grabbed the bottle, and left.
Mr. Kim watched him go, then took another sip from his mug, feeling the subtle warmth spread again. A slow, thoughtful smile creased his lips. Maybe the poor kid had stumbled onto something after all. He took Leo's milk jug and placed it prominently at the front of the cold case, right next to the brand-name stuff. Then, with a black marker, he took a small piece of cardboard and wrote: ARTISAN SPRING WATER - RARE!
He wasn't sure if it was a lie anymore.
Twenty minutes later, the door chirped again. It was Frank. He wasn't holding the water bottle.
"Kim!" he said, his voice holding a note of undisguised astonishment. He walked right up to the counter.
"It works," Mr. Kim stated simply.
"How the hell does it work?" Frank demanded, slapping a ten-dollar bill on the counter. "I drank half of it and I swear... I just feel... good. Not wired, you know? Just... awake. Clear. The headache I've had since nine this morning is gone. What is this stuff?"
Mr. Kim adopted an air of ancient, mysterious wisdom. "An old secret."
"Yeah, well, gimme another one," Frank said, gesturing at the cold case. "For my buddy. He won't believe me." Then he looked at the large milk jug with the hand-written sign. "How much for the big one?"
Mr. Kim looked at the jug, then at the ten-dollar bill. "Five dollars," he said, without blinking.
Frank didn't even argue. "Sold."
Mr. Kim rang up the sale, his mind buzzing. A dollar fifty had just turned into seven. He had sold out his entire stock in under thirty minutes. He took another sip of his own mug of water, the gears in his head turning faster than they had in years.
He looked at the door, hoping the poor, desperate kid with the 'rustic' bottles would be back soon. Very, very soon. And this time, he'd be ready to talk real business.