Chapter 8: Debbie's Broken Toys
Debbie Gallagher marched into Ben's garage at 9 AM Saturday morning carrying a cardboard box and wearing an expression of pure business determination.
"I have a proposition," she announced.
Ben looked up from the carburetor he was cleaning. "Morning to you too."
"Morning. I have a proposition," she repeated, setting the box on his workbench with exaggerated care. "It's mutually beneficial. You'll want to hear this."
She was ten years old and sounded like a corporate executive. Ben fought the urge to smile.
"Okay. I'm listening."
Debbie opened the box. Inside were broken toys—at least a dozen of them, each carefully wrapped in newspaper. She began unpacking them with the precision of a surgeon.
"These are broken toys I've collected from around the neighborhood. Kids don't have money to buy new ones, but they'd pay to have old ones fixed." She lined them up: a stuffed bear with a torn seam, an action figure missing an arm, a doll with a cracked face. "I'll pay you two dollars per toy to fix them. Then I'll resell them for five dollars each. That's three dollars profit per unit."
Ben's MacGyver Mind assessed the damage automatically. The stuffed bear needed stitching—easy. The action figure required improvising a new arm from spare parts—doable. The doll's face was cracked but could be glued and painted. None of the repairs were difficult.
But something about the way Debbie handled each toy stopped him. She was pitching this like pure business, calculating profit margins and talking about units. But her hands were gentle, careful. She wasn't seeing merchandise. She was seeing treasures that deserved repair.
"Two dollars per toy seems high," Ben said. "How about one dollar?"
Debbie's eyes narrowed. "These repairs will take time. Your labor is worth more than a dollar."
"Volume discount. If you're bringing me twelve at once, I can do them assembly-line style. More efficient."
"But—"
"Seventy-five cents per toy. Final offer."
Debbie calculated silently, lips moving. "At seventy-five cents, with twelve toys, that's nine dollars total. I'll resell for sixty dollars. That's fifty-one dollars profit, split... okay. Deal."
They shook hands. Debbie counted out nine dollars in crumpled bills and loose change.
"When will they be ready?" she asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow? That's fast."
"I'm efficient."
After she left, Ben examined the toys more carefully. His MacGyver Mind showed him solutions immediately—materials needed, time estimates, optimal repair sequences. The whole job would take maybe three hours if he worked straight through.
Or thirty seconds per toy if he used his illusion power.
Ben picked up the doll with the cracked face. Focused. Felt the power stirring, showing him how easy it would be. Transform the damage, make it pristine, make Debbie's eyes light up with joy at perfect repairs.
Then he remembered the twenty-dollar bill that had reverted to newspaper. The corner store cashier with his face on camera. Mrs. Rodriguez's washing machine destroyed as a message.
These toys are going to kids. Kids who already have nothing. If the illusions fail...
Debbie would be blamed. Would face angry parents, accusations of scamming. The kids would get toys that broke again, their brief joy turning to disappointment. And Ben would be responsible for creating that pain.
He set down the doll and picked up a needle and thread instead.
Six hours. That's how long it took to repair all twelve toys by hand.
The stuffed bear required careful stitching, matching the original seam as closely as possible. The action figure needed a replacement arm carved from a chunk of dense foam, painted to approximate the original color. The doll's face required epoxy and careful sanding, followed by paint mixing to match the skin tone.
Each repair was imperfect. The bear's seam was visible if you looked close. The action figure's new arm didn't quite match the other one. The doll's face showed faint lines where the cracks had been.
But they were real. Solid. Would last as long as the original construction allowed.
Ben's hands ached by the time he finished. His MacGyver Mind had guided every repair, but the physical execution still required time and effort. He'd chosen the hard way, the honest way, and his body felt it.
This is what it costs to not use shortcuts, he thought, flexing his cramped fingers. This is the price of being real.
Debbie returned Sunday at 2 PM with Fiona in tow.
"She insisted," Debbie explained, gesturing at her sister. "Thinks you might be a creep."
"I didn't say creep," Fiona corrected. "I said I wanted to make sure you weren't... I don't know. Weird."
"I might be weird," Ben admitted. "But not in concerning ways."
Fiona didn't smile, but her expression softened slightly. She stayed near the door while Debbie approached the workbench where the toys were laid out.
"Oh wow," Debbie breathed.
She picked up each toy carefully, inspecting Ben's work with the critical eye of a quality control inspector. The bear's new seam. The action figure's mismatched arm. The doll's repaired face.
"These are..." She paused, searching for words. "They're not perfect."
"No," Ben agreed. "But they'll last."
"The seam on the bear is visible."
"Yep."
"And this action figure's arm is the wrong color."
"Best I could do with available materials."
Debbie set down the action figure and looked at him. "You spent way more than three hours on these, didn't you?"
"Closer to six."
"Why?"
Ben shrugged. "Kids deserve stuff that won't break on them again. Seemed worth the extra time."
Something shifted in Debbie's expression—the corporate executive mask dropping to reveal the ten-year-old underneath. "Thank you," she said quietly.
"You paid for it."
"Not enough." She gathered the toys carefully, packing them back into the box with the same care she'd used to unpack them. "I'll tell people you do good work."
"Appreciate it."
Fiona had been watching silently, leaning against the doorframe. Now she pushed off and approached the workbench, examining the leftover materials—scraps of foam, paint bottles, thread.
"You did all this for nine dollars?" she asked.
"Seventy-five cents per toy. Volume discount."
"That's less than minimum wage for six hours of work."
"Good thing I'm self-employed."
Fiona picked up the needle he'd used for the bear, turning it over in her fingers. "You're either the nicest guy I've ever met or you're running a long con. Still trying to figure out which."
Ben met her eyes. "Can't it be both?"
This time she actually smiled—brief, almost surprised, like the expression had escaped without permission. "Maybe."
Debbie cleared her throat loudly. "Are we done here? I have customers waiting."
"Yeah, we're done." Fiona set down the needle, but her eyes stayed on Ben. "Thanks. For helping her. For not treating her like a kid trying to play business."
"She's better at business than most adults I know."
"Don't encourage her," Fiona said, but there was warmth in her voice. "She's already planning world domination."
They left, Debbie carrying her box of repaired toys with obvious pride. Fiona looked back twice—once from the doorway, once from halfway down the street. Both times, her expression was thoughtful, like she was solving a puzzle and getting closer to the answer.
Ben cleaned his workspace slowly, putting away tools, organizing materials. His hands still ached. His head throbbed faintly from six hours of concentrated MacGyver Mind usage. But underneath the physical discomfort was something else.
Satisfaction. The kind that came from honest work done right.
I could have used illusion power. Made everything perfect in minutes. But perfect would have been fake. Would have broken and made everything worse.
He'd chosen the hard way. The real way. Had accepted pain and effort over supernatural shortcuts. And somehow, that choice felt more meaningful than any con or clever use of his powers.
Maybe that was the test his transmigration had presented: not whether he could use impossible abilities, but whether he knew when not to.
Ben locked up the garage and headed to the corner store for dinner. The same route he'd walked a dozen times, past houses he recognized, neighbors who nodded acknowledgment. He was part of the neighborhood now. Part of the ecosystem.
He'd helped Mrs. Rodriguez, befriended Kevin, partnered with Frank, fixed toys for Debbie, and somewhere in all of that, started earning Fiona's trust.
Each choice creating ripples. Each action changing the story in ways he couldn't predict.
But tonight, his hands hurt from honest work, and that felt like something worth holding onto.
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