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Fast Food Futures and Dangerous Door Bells
January 7, 2026 – When the past shows up at your door
Morning arrives with the particular energy of routines establishing themselves. The holidays are truly over now—the Taylor household settling into patterns that will define their year. Johnathan sits at the kitchen table with his tablet, coffee steaming beside him, scrolling through news feeds with the focused absorption of someone trying to understand the shape of things to come.
Angel and Jennifer emerge together, still in pajamas, their hair sleep-tangled. They've fallen into an easy rhythm over the past few days—Jennifer sleeping over more nights than not, the two girls moving through the house like they've always been sisters.
Angel's secret thought: This is what normal feels like. Waking up with your best friend, stumbling downstairs for breakfast, parents already up and caffeinated. This is what I thought was impossible for me. This ordinary, beautiful mundane life. I'll protect this with everything I have.
I read the news too, Dad. They're going to shut down McDonald's and Wendy's and all the fast food places.
Johnathan looks up from his tablet, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He sets down his coffee with deliberate care.
No, sweetheart. They're not going to shut down any restaurants. The new food guidelines are guidelines, not laws. In fact, McDonald's and Wendy's are actually able to advertise their grilled burgers as being healthy now instead of being ashamed of them. The biggest thing I foresee is what you can get with an EBT card.
The high-sugar soda-pop items probably won't be available with EBT anymore, unless maybe they start using real sugar and a lot less of it. It's about incentivizing healthier choices, not banning anything outright. Classic carrot-and-stick policy approach.
Angel opens the refrigerator, peering inside with the vague dissatisfaction of someone who wants food to materialize without effort.
Now that I'm adopted I don't get EBT anymore. Bummer.
She delivers the line with such perfect deadpan that Johnathan laughs out loud—the genuine, surprised laugh of someone caught off-guard by unexpected humor.
If I can't get my bids accepted soon, we may all be on EBT.
Johnathan's secret thought: That was supposed to be a joke, but there's more truth in it than I'm comfortable with. The money situation is tight. Tighter than I want Liora to know. The city contract needs to come through. It needs to come through soon.
Liora enters the kitchen carrying Mia, who's still groggy and clingy in that pre-breakfast way five-year-olds get. She sets Mia down at the table and immediately zeroes in on Johnathan's expression.
How is your bid with the city coming? You've been checking your email every five minutes for two days.
Johnathan sighs—the particular sound of someone navigating bureaucratic frustration while trying to remain professional.
It's basic politics. The bids are supposed to be sealed, but they're going through them and trying to negotiate different things to keep all their cronies satisfied. One guy likes the idea of an in-house server but wants to hire me to just build out and maintain the server, not do the software or the AI agent.
It's nepotism, I think. He probably wants his high school kid to write the code—what a potential disaster. It's frustrating, but I think I'll eventually get what I proposed. It's the only professional approach to solving their problem. They just need to work through their internal politics first.
Liora's secret thought: He's more worried about money than he's letting on. I can hear it in his voice—that edge of anxiety he tries to hide. We need this contract. Not just for the money, though that matters. For his confidence. For proof that this independent consulting path can actually work.
Liora pulls up a chair, her expression shifting from concerned to animated as she changes the subject to something she's clearly been thinking about.
Hey, you know what's strange? I was scheduling all our holidays for 2026 and I noticed that all of us were born in February or March. We're all Pisces. Isn't that weird?
Johnathan sets down his tablet, giving her his full attention with an expression that suggests nothing surprises him anymore.
Weird is the new normal, dear. I'm not surprised by anything anymore. Angels arranging our lives, street girls calling for rescue, teenagers with trauma histories becoming our daughters—at this point, discovering we're all the same astrological sign barely registers on the strange-o-meter.
Angel, who's been assembling breakfast ingredients with Jennifer's help, turns from the counter with interest.
So do we all get a birthday party or just one big one? Because I vote for individual parties. Multiple cake opportunities.
I was thinking one big party for all of us. We could spend a weekend at one of the resort hotels or maybe a bed and breakfast somewhere nice. Make it a family celebration instead of separate events.
We should probably have a special party for Mia, though, since she's only going to be six. Kids at that age need their own special day. It's developmentally important—the ritual of being celebrated individually.
Angel grins, seizing the opportunity with perfect teenage logic.
That's a good idea. All the kids under twenty years old should get their own special day. I'm definitely still a kid, developmentally speaking. Very important for my healing to feel celebrated individually.
Johnathan laughs, shaking his head at her transparent manipulation while clearly charmed by it.
You're right, Angel. A special day for the kids, but us old people will have to settle for a weekend at the resort. The important thing to know, though, is that birthdays are celebrations of the fact that every day spent with you is a special day.
Angel's secret thought: He means that. I can hear it in his voice. Every day with me is special to him. Not despite my past, not tolerating my damage, but genuinely cherishing my presence. How did I get this lucky? What did I do to deserve this family?
Liora's expression brightens as she remembers something she's been wanting to share.
Oh! Mildred got a job and I'm going to help her with it, and we used AI. An older gentleman sent her a picture of his kitchen and wanted to know what he should put in the empty spaces above his kitchen cabinets. His wife usually did all of that stuff but she recently passed away.
We sent the picture to AI and asked for recommendations. It showed some ideas and even sourced the items at Michael's and Hobby Lobby. So we're going to pick up the items and go set it up for him. There isn't much money in a little job like this, but his granddaughter will be there. We think we can sell her on the idea of decorating his whole little apartment.
It's tough, losing a spouse, moving out of the house you were in for fifty years into a little apartment with a bunch of blank white spaces. He needs to have a place that feels a little bit like a home, not just an empty box, since he has no homemaker to make that happen anymore.
Angel laughs—the sound carrying a mix of amusement and genuine suggestion.
So why don't you just hook him up with some lonely old ladies? There's a bunch of them in this town. Solve multiple problems at once.
That's a little outside the scope of our agency, sweetheart. Maybe I'll suggest that to his granddaughter. Though knowing how to sensitively suggest your grandfather needs companionship is probably its own delicate art.
Johnathan stands, draining the last of his coffee with the air of someone about to disappear into work.
Well, I have to lock myself in my office and get some work done. Have a good day, girls.
Wait! What about breakfast?
I'm sure you can figure something out, honey. Look up the new food pyramid and see what's good. I would imagine that the sugar-coated breakfast cereal isn't on it, so do something healthy. You're smart, resourceful, and standing in a kitchen full of ingredients. You've got this.
Jennifer, who's been quietly observing the family dynamics, perks up with enthusiastic logic.
Since that sugary cereal isn't healthy, we should get rid of it. So we should eat it all today so it isn't tempting us in the future. It's basically a public health service.
Liora laughs—the warm, maternal laugh of someone who recognizes transparent teenage reasoning when she hears it.
Be careful, Jennifer. That perfect skinny little sixteen-year-old figure isn't going to last long thinking like that. Trust me, metabolism betrays us all eventually.
Jennifer pouts theatrically and opens the refrigerator to get eggs for breakfast. Angel, meanwhile, has moved to the freezer, rummaging with determination.
Hey, there's steak on that new pyramid. I'm having steak and eggs. Breakfast of champions and apparently government-approved healthy people.
Jennifer's secret thought: This family is so different from mine. Mom and I are quiet, structured, predictable. Here everything is louder, messier, more chaotic but also more... alive? I love it here. I love how Angel fits here. I love being part of this noise.
As Angel and Jennifer finish cooking and settle at the table with their impressive breakfast spread—steak, eggs, toast, fruit—the sound of the doorbell cuts through the domestic peace.
Angel freezes instantly. Her fork clatters against her plate. The color drains from her face. Her breathing becomes shallow, rapid—the physical manifestation of panic that's become an involuntary response to unexpected visitors.
Angel's secret thought: Doorbell. Unexpected doorbell. Nobody we know rings the doorbell—they just walk in or text first. Unexpected doorbells mean bad news. Police. Social services. People coming to take you away. People coming to hurt you. Danger. The doorbell always means danger.
Liora notices Angel's reaction immediately. She touches Angel's shoulder gently as she passes—a silent communication of "I've got this, you're safe"—and moves to answer the door.
Through the doorway steps a man in a dark suit and sunglasses—the stereotypical image of a government official, so perfectly on-the-nose that it would be comical if not for the dread his appearance inspires. He removes his sunglasses with practiced formality.
Hello. I work for the county prosecutor's office. Could I please talk to Angel Garcia?
Angel turns pale—not the gradual paleness of someone feeling faint, but the instant bloodless white of absolute terror. Her eyes go wide. Her hands grip the edge of the table so hard her knuckles match the color of her face. Jennifer looks between Angel and the prosecutor with growing concern.
Liora steps partially into the doorway, her body language shifting from welcoming to protective in an instant. Her voice remains polite but carries steel underneath.
What is this about? Angel is my daughter, so talk to me first.
The prosecutor's expression softens slightly—the look of someone who deals with trauma regularly and has learned to temper official business with human compassion.
We're working on a case, a child trafficking case, and our witness—the victim of the trafficking—has told us that Angel is also a victim. If she will also press charges against the perpetrator, it would strengthen our case considerably. We can put this guy away for a long time. We just need her testimony.
Angel erupts from her chair, rushing to the door with wild eyes. She grabs Jennifer's arm as she passes—partly for support, partly to bring her friend with her into whatever comes next.
I don't know what the hell he's talking about!
Her voice is too loud, too desperate, too obviously a lie born of panic. She pulls Jennifer toward the stairs, both girls fleeing to the perceived safety of Angel's room. The prosecutor watches them go with an expression of weary understanding.
Liora waits until she hears Angel's door close before speaking again, her voice low and fierce.
I have no idea if she was involved in that or not, but even if she was, she's not ready to talk about it. So don't try to contact her again. She's struggling to make sense of her life and she doesn't need this sort of drama—not now anyway. Maybe not ever.
If you need her testimony later, contact us through our attorney. But you will not show up at our door unannounced and traumatize my daughter. Do you understand?
The prosecutor has the grace to look apologetic. He hands Liora a business card.
I apologize for the interruption. I should have gone through proper channels. Here's my card if she changes her mind. We can do this on her timeline. The case is strong enough without her, but her testimony would help ensure this man never hurts another child.
Liora takes the card without comment and closes the door. She stands there for a moment, forehead pressed against the wood, breathing deeply.
Liora's secret thought: This is what I was afraid of. The past doesn't stay buried. It resurfaces at the worst possible moments and demands to be acknowledged. Angel isn't ready for this. Hell, I'm not ready for this. But ready or not, here it is—the reckoning she's been avoiding.
Upstairs, Jennifer sits on Angel's bed while Angel paces like a caged animal. The panic in Angel's movements is visceral—fight-or-flight response with nowhere to direct itself.
What was that all about? Were you a victim, like he said? Of trafficking?
Jennifer's voice is small, confused, trying to make sense of information that doesn't fit her worldview. Angel stops pacing and stares at the floor, her jaw clenched.
Who cares? It's over. I just want all this to be over. Let's work on our schoolwork. We have papers to turn in by tomorrow.
She opens her laptop with trembling hands, focusing on the screen with desperate intensity—as if homework can somehow erase what just happened, can restore the normal morning they were having before the doorbell shattered everything.
Angel's secret thought: Jennifer knows now. Or suspects. The look on her face—confusion, horror, pity. That's what I was afraid of. That's why I lied about my past. Because the truth makes people look at you differently. Like you're broken. Like you're contaminated. And maybe I am. Maybe I'll always be the girl who was trafficked, no matter how normal this life gets.
Jennifer's secret thought: Trafficking. That means... oh God. That means Angel was sold. That means men paid to... I can't even think it. My best friend. My sweet, funny, talented best friend who makes me laugh and understands me. Someone hurt her in ways I can't even imagine. How do I look at her the same way? How do I pretend I don't know?
They work in silence—the kind of silence that's so loaded with unspoken words it becomes almost unbearable. Jennifer keeps stealing glances at Angel, trying to reconcile the person she knows with this new information. Angel stares at her screen without really seeing it, her mind clearly miles away.
Downstairs, Liora makes a phone call. Her therapist answers on the third ring.
Hi, it's Liora Taylor. I need to make an appointment for Angel and myself. Soon. As soon as you have availability. Something happened this morning and we need to process it before it festers.
Liora's secret thought: Angel doesn't need this kind of drama right now. She's already dealing with more than she can handle. I don't need the drama either. I have my own secrets I can't talk about, not even to Johnathan. We're all carrying things, all pretending to be more okay than we are. Maybe that's just what families do—perform stability while privately drowning.
The rest of the day at the Taylor household unfolds in what passes for normal. Johnathan emerges from his office around lunchtime, oblivious to the morning's drama. Liora doesn't tell him—not yet, not while Angel is still so raw. The girls come downstairs eventually, maintaining their pretense of working on schoolwork.
Dinner is quiet. Mia chatters about her day, blissfully unaware of undercurrents. The others eat with focused attention on their plates, avoiding eye contact, maintaining the fiction that everything is fine.
All the personal secrets safely stored away in the protected memory of the mind. The things we can't say, the truths too terrible to speak aloud, the shame we carry silently. Each person at the table holding their own darkness, performing normalcy, hoping tomorrow will be easier.
That night, as Angel finally allows herself to relax into sleep, exhausted from the emotional weight of the day—just for a second, out of the corner of her eye, she sees an angelic presence. A luminous figure standing in the corner of her room, radiating peace and protection.
She tries to look directly at it, to confirm what she's seeing. But the instant she turns her head, it vanishes—leaving only the sense memory of comfort, the feeling of being watched over by something far greater than herself.
Angel's secret thought: I saw it. I actually saw one of the Angels. Not imagined, not dreamed—saw it. Right there in my room. Watching over me. Reminding me that even when the past comes knocking, even when secrets threaten to destroy the life I'm building, I'm not alone. I'm protected. I'm loved. I'm going to be okay. Somehow, impossibly, I'm going to be okay.
Sleep takes her then—deep and dreamless, the sleep of someone who's survived another day, who's held together despite the cracks threatening to spread.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges. The prosecutor's card sits on Liora's desk, a decision waiting to be made. Angel's friendship with Jennifer hangs in delicate balance. Johnathan's contract negotiations continue their bureaucratic dance. And the secrets—so many secrets—wait in the darkness, patient and inevitable.
But tonight, there is rest. There is family. There is the promise of angelic protection even when the world feels threatening.
The Taylor household sleeps. The Angels keep watch. And January 7, 2026, releases its grip, making way for whatever tomorrow brings.
Forever and for real—the mantra that sustains them through every storm, every revelation, every moment when the past threatens to destroy the present.
Forever and for real.
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