In a quiet neighborhood, there lived an old man named Harold. He was a creature of habit, content in his solitude, and rarely stirred from his routine. His days passed quietly, until one morning, he woke up feeling unwell. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he realized he was alone, with an insatiable craving for comfort food: chicken fried chicken, iced Arizona tea with lemon, and chocolate-covered raisins.

The irony of his situation struck him hard. Though he had a box hidden in his attic filled with cash—enough to buy a small car—his bank account was empty. “Oh my God, I’m starving,” he muttered, eyeing the pantry filled with food he didn’t want. Determined to satisfy his craving, he reached for his old backpack, tucked a small gun...