Page 2 of Never To Be Mine

“Fifteen years of suffering,” he repeated, shaking his head sympathetically. “And modern medicine hasn’t been able to help you, has it?”

“I’ve tried everything,” the woman says.

The reptile with the mic popped out his bottom lip. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Gag.

“Today’s world has forgotten the old ways,” the man said. “The industry doesn’t want you to know there are options that don’t cost a fortune and come with a list of side effects. They want you to suffer because it keeps them rich.”

I shouldered my way to the front of the group. “Or maybe because modern medicine has to prove the claims,” I said clearly.

The vendor’s eyes snapped to me. His smile didn’t falter, but I saw the flash of irritation. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be.” I crossed my arms. “Because everything you just said is complete and utter crap.”

A few gasps rippled through the gathered crowd. The elderly woman looked between us, confused.

The vendor’s smile finally cracked. “Excuse me, but I don’t think⁠—”

“No, you don’t think. That’s the problem.” I stepped closer to his display table, picking up one of the bracelets. It was light, flimsy—probably worth about two dollars if you bought it wholesale. The price tag said seventy-nine ninety-five. “This is a piece of copper. That’s it. It doesn’t interact with electromagnetic fields in any meaningful way. It doesn’t cure arthritis. It doesn’t improve circulation. It’s junk jewelry you’re selling to desperate people at criminal markups.”

His face flushed red. “I have testimonials.”

I snorted. “I’m sure you do. Pretty easy to write those lies yourself.” I turned to address the crowd directly. “Not a single one of the claims he just made has been proven in peer-reviewed studies. If copper bracelets actually cured arthritis, rheumatologists would be prescribing them instead of actual medication.”

The elderly woman’s expression went from hope to disappointment.

The vendor stepped around his table, and I could see his hands clenching. “You can’t just come to my booth and interfere.”

“You mean tell the truth?” I met his glare without flinching. “You’re a snake-oil salesman preying on people who are in pain and looking for relief. That’s not business. That’s exploitation.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Someone who actually knows what she’s talking about.” I pulled one of my business cards from my jacket pocket and set it on his table with a sharp tap. “Juno Young, with Young at Heart.”

“I have testimonies from real people.”

I rolled my eyes. “And I have a degree that says you’re full of shit. Get a real job and stop grifting good people.”

A few folks in the crowd were already putting the bracelets they’d been holding back on the velvet display. The elderly woman shook her head and turned away, murmuring to her companion about, “too good to be true.”

“I have studies!” the liar claimed.

“You just said you had testimonials. Now you have studies?”

“Which is it?” someone else called out.

The vendor’s face went from red to purple. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an industry plant. Someone else that doesn’t want you to heal yourself. They make their money selling you pharmaceuticals that keep you dependent.”

I snorted. “Seriously?”

He thought he was winning. He stepped closer, puffing out his chest like he could intimidate me into backing down. “Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t some classroom where you can lecture everyone with your fancy degree. These people came here for real solutions, not to be talked down to by some suit who thinks she knows better than centuries of tradition.”

I didn’t flinch. Instead, I planted my feet and met his glare head on. “Centuries of tradition don’t override basic biology or controlled trials. If your bracelets worked, every rheumatologist would be handing them out. This is what those of us with fancy degrees call a placebo. Snake oil.”

“But would the so-called traditional doctors actually hand them out?” he countered. “How are they going to make money if they actually cure their patients?”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers. I pressed on before he could interrupt. “You want to help people? Sell them actual compression sleeves backed by research or direct them to physical therapy. What you’re doing here isn’t healing—it’s theft.”