“What I don’t get,” Jason said, just before tossing a floating topwater lure out into the middle of the pond, where it hit with a subtle splash, “is why I have 23.75 in the GAME $ column, but still have nothing in the wealth column. Why is that?”

“Aha, that’s the real question.” Jason’s grandfather sat on a folding chair, and a red and white bobber drifted out at the end of his line, rolling with the almost imperceptible waves on the pond. “There’s a difference between money and wealth. Remember, almost all of us have money, and will make a million dollars over the course of our careers, but end up with nothing, because we don’t have wealth.”

“So what is wealth?” Jason gave his line a little jerk, so the lure spat water on the surface of the pool.

“When you have money that makes you money, that is wealth.” His grandpa raised up his insulated cup, which held a bottle of Corona with a thin lime wedge jammed into the neck of it, and took a drink.

“What about a nice house?” Jason wondered. “You said your dad had a nice house when he died, and your mom still lives in that very nice house.”

“Most Americans are house poor, meaning that their money is tied up in their houses.”

“But isn’t a house an asset?” Jason asked. “I mean, you could sell the house and get several hundred thousand dollars.”

“But then, where would you live?” Jason’s grandfather reeled in the bobber and then recast the line after making certain that the bit of nightcrawler was still attached to the hook. “That’s the problem. My mom kept sinking money into an ever nicer and nicer home, but she can’t get money out of it without having to find another place to live. She’s in debt for the house she has now, and will probably never pay it off.”

“How about savings?” Jason asked, and gave his lure another twitch.

“Savings are close, but once you factor in inflation, you’re actually losing money.” Grandpa took a sip of his beer and then set it back on top of the cooler. “Still, it’s better than spending it all. My parents taught me thrift, meaning not spending all the money you have. So that’s step one to wealth—spend less than you make. Gene Simmons of the rock group KISS says to live on less than half your income. The second step is savings. You need to put that extra money aside, and not just blow it on some luxury purchase. So why didn’t my parents ever accumulate any wealth?”

“I guess that’s step three, whatever that is,” Jason replied, and took a drink of his beer, which was gratifyingly cold.

“Yes! Investment! My parents were thrifty, and they saved money, but they never invested it. You’ve got to invest your money in a vehicle that will earn money, and the easiest way to do that is to invest in a low-fee or free index fund.” Grandpa adjusted his Fedora to keep the sun out of his eyes.

“Index fund?” Jason wondered, and twitched the end of his fishing rod again.

“They just don’t teach this stuff in school, which is why so many people are broke. An index fund aims to buy a little bit of every stock available in the market, so when you invest, you’re investing in the stock market as a whole, and not just trying to pick stocks that are going to be winners.”

“No offense, but that sounds like a dumb strategy, like something any dummy could do.” Jason shook his head and reeled in his lure quickly, watching as a bass followed it all the way to the shore.

“Any dummy can do it, which is why it works. J. L. Collins wrote a book, The Simple Path to Wealth. You spend less than half your income, and invest the rest in a low-fee index fund. It’s that easy.” His grandpa’s bobber suddenly dipped down, and he reeled in furiously.

Jason saw a flash of a round fish go broadside, and by the time his grandpa had reeled it in, Jason saw that the fish was a bluegill, spinning and flopping on the line as his grandfather held it aloft.

Grandpa used a towel to keep from getting stuck by the fish’s spines, and then unhooked it with a pair of needle nose pliers and dropped it into the cooler. “In the game, take your money to a stock broker and deposit it in a no-fee index fund. Technically, none of that is possible in 1928 New York, but it’s a video game, not a documentary.”

“Okay, consider it done.” Jason threw out his topwater lure again, so that it landed with a splash and a twitch. “I destroyed some six-foot goon in the game last night, and had a wonderful date with a voluptuous redhead—I saw firsthand what a real date should look and feel like.”

“Keep working out in real life, and you’ll get even stronger in the game,” his grandfather assured him. “In the real world, we’ve got to get rid of your debt before you invest in the stock market, and once you do that, things will really take off.”

* * *

“We’re with RAPE,” the huge man said, extending a beefy hand with dirty fingernails clutching a brass badge. Sure enough, the badge had the acronym spelled out, “Revenue Accountability and Policy Enforcement.” It’s amazing how brazen they were to identify themselves as officers of RAPE, but maybe that was the point—they didn’t give a damn, and would crush anybody in their way. Another man, just as large, stood beside him, and the men of the rescue mission made a point of hanging back to give them plenty of leeway. “One of our companions had an accident yesterday, only we think it might not have been an accident.”

Jason hoped his gulping wasn’t obvious. He thought, “Accident, like a guy getting heaved over the railing of the stairway?”

The huge man jerked his head, snapping it so that the greasy black strands of his combover whipped across the bald top of his head to provide a bit of covering. His hand grabbed Jason’s shoulder and squeezed, which felt like a trash compactor, and Jason feared that he had a torn rotator cuff. “We’re looking for somebody big.”

The two men suddenly spied Pastor Roy, who was easily the biggest man in the rescue mission. It made sense in their minds anybody who had killed their companion had to be as big as they were, and hadn’t accounted for Jason’s unseen strength. The two goons made their way over to the Pastor and began talking to him. Jason couldn’t hear their conversation clearly, but knew that the Pastor was denying their accusations, and told them that he hadn’t gone on the trip.

The two brutes made some sort of parting warning or threat to Pastor Roy, then glanced at Jason dismissively as they made their way out of the second floor rescue mission and down the steps.

Sensing the threat was over, the bums began to file out of the dining room, headed out to the street.

“Here, Frank, take your pill,” Jason reached out and tapped the shoulder of one of the men after breakfast, who was part of the group headed down the stairs. Jason tried to hand the man his pill, but the guy, who had stubble on his face and wore a coat with a tattered hem, started to bolt down the stairs. Jason ran down the stairs to catch up with him. “Frank, Dr. Steinman told me you’re a ticking time bomb; you really need to take the meds.”

Frank didn’t look back, but pulled his worn coat around him and brought down the brim of his hat as he began to push his way through the swinging double doors. “I’ll take it later.”

Jason followed him outside. He was frustrated, and didn’t feel like chasing the guy down the sidewalk, especially now that a cold wind was slicing through passersby. Then an idea occurred to Jason. “What if you had something to wash it down with?”

“Something?” Frank stopped and turned around, lifting his hat on his head so he could study Jason. The cold wind made his face look red and raw.

“Something medicinal,” Jason said, with the slightest hint of a smile. “Why don’t you wait upstairs?”

Frank complied and turned around to head up the stairs to the lobby of the rescue mission, while Jason rushed down to the nearest liquor store and bought a bottle of Night Train, which he discreetly left in its paper bag. By the time Jason was upstairs, Frank was waiting, as was a crowd of other men who had decided against leaving the rescue mission and returned. Frank took his pill, and washed it down with a Dixie cup full of Night Train, followed by a sigh of approval.

“You know, Brother Jason, I’ve got ulcer meds that I should be taking,” Cecil announced.

“I’m on maintenance for blood pressure, or was, until I couldn’t afford my pills,” Harvey added.

“I’ve got acid reflux,” a voice chimed in.

“I was taking anti-depression meds,” another said.

“Okay, okay, guys, let me see what I can arrange.” Jason had to raise his voice to be heard above the murmuring. “I’ll see if I can’t get you all your meds, and for those of you who don’t need a maintenance medication, maybe I can get you some vitamins, all to be washed down by something medicinal.”

The men looked disappointed as they filtered out of the lobby and down the steps to the street. Jason was watching them go when the large form of Pastor Roy appeared from the edge of his vision.

“I saw it all,” Pastor Roy confided.

“I know, Pastor, I shouldn’t have given Frank a bit of Night Train, but it’s the only way he was going to take his medication,” Jason protested. “And Dr. Steinman specifically warned me about Frank, that he’s in a very precarious situation. I shouldn’t be giving him booze, but what if he drops dead of a stroke or a heart attack?”

Pastor Roy laid one of his big hands on Jason’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s a good thing that you’re here, ‘cause you’ve got a different way of looking at things. We know that as soon as those guys get onto the street they’re going to get themselves some hooch. The worst part is that they’ve stopped caring, even about themselves. Whether it’s the doctor, the dentist, taking medication, they just don’t care, so you’re right to meet them where they’re at. Come with me.”

The big man gestured with a wave of his hand, so that Jason followed him down the hallway, past the men’s dormitory, past the Healing Room, past a Prayer Closet, to a room at the end of the hall. Pastor Roy opened the door to an empty room, which had just a metal frame bed with a mattress and a wooden chair next to a table with a chipped wooden top. A single window with a roll-up blind looked out into the alley behind the rescue mission.

“This is your room, Brother Jason,” Pastor Roy said with a wave of his hand. “When you first showed up, you were homeless, but you’re not like the other men. You’ve been cooking, cleaning, helping, contributing—and the dollar you gave this morning was very generous. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to do good things here. It’s only fitting that you should have your own room.”

“Thanks, Pastor, this is really nice.” Jason walked over to a standup closet, and opened it to reveal metal hangers on a dowel running across the inside, but nothing else.

“It’s not much, but we thought you should have your own place.” Pastor Roy went over and opened the window a sliver so that a bit of fresh air could circulate in the room.

“My first night here in the city, I slept in a cardboard box, so this is great.” Jason sat down on the chair and felt the table top with his hand after Pastor Roy nodded and left. It was all just a matter of gradual steps, starting with being a penniless bum—literally penniless. Now, at least he had his own room, even if he didn’t think he’d be able to get the voluptuous redhead Betty here without the minister’s disapproval. On today’s to-do list, Jason figured he needed to deposit his money into a no-load index fund as his grandfather suggested, and then maybe see about getting some kind of a role as a health liaison with the Department of Health.

Jason got up and strode down the hallway, waving to Pastor Roy, Sister Belinda and Sister Jamie on the way out. He made his way down to the sidewalk, headed toward the bank to withdraw his money, then to the stockbroker to invest it.

On his way home from the stock broker Jason checked his watch, and felt unexpectedly happy.

For the first time since he started the game, Jason had money in the “wealth” column, even if it was only in the game, and even if he only had twenty dollars. In real life, the wealth column was an abyss of red ink, because he was in debt to the tune of over twenty-six thousand dollars.

But now, as he made his way back to the rescue mission in the game, Jason thought he started to see what his grandfather was getting at, started to grasp the concept of wealth as power, because he had something in reserve. If Jason wound up back in a cardboard box tonight, without a cent and begging for change, at least he had something in reserve, money he could get to if he needed it. Over time, that money would grow, and the longer it grew, the bigger it would become—all without Jason doing anything. The secret was to start shoveling money into that account, and watch it grow.

But even more interesting, Jason noted a gold ribbon in the game section of the watch display. Had he won an award, or a prize of some kind?

He was weaving his way through the crowd of men, all of whom wore suits and fedoras, and women in skirts and high heels, with the occasional matronly woman who cheated and wore pumps, when the cop suddenly appeared from the doorway of a bar, with a glowing neon sign indicating The Punch Drunk. This was the same cop who flummoxed Houdini with a rigged pair of handcuffs, and who had helped Jason dispose of the body of the goon who attacked him outside the doctor’s office. With a jerk of his head, he indicated Jason should follow him.

The cop led the way into the dimly lit bar, where the chairs had diamond-tuck upholstery, and a few patrons drank boilermakers or whiskey shots with chasers. The two of them sat down at a table, and the cop slid over a box, which was maybe ten inches long and two-and-a-half inches wide, then shook a cigarette of the pack and lit it. Jason saw that the gold ribbon on his watch was glowing. Apparently, this was a prize, some kind of a special bonus in the game, but what the hell was it? Judging from its shape, it could be a vape pen, eighty years early, or a retro watch, or a dildo, or who knew. He picked up the slim box and began to open it.