America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Thompson turned to Arthur: "Mr. Kennedy, I've read your article. You warned everyone before the stock market crash. But nobody listened."

"Including me. I used to laugh at you, thinking you were exaggerating. Now I know you were right. But it's too late."

Arthur didn't know what to say, so he remained silent.

"Where are you planning to move to?" Isabella asked softly.

"The Bronx. Rent is cheap there. I found a new job as an accountant at a small company, earning a hundred dollars a month."

"My children can no longer attend private schools. My wife can no longer go shopping at department stores."

"We're moving from Park Slope to the Bronx, which means leaving New York's middle-class circle."

His voice was filled with despair: "This is the end of the American Dream."

After touring the house, Thompson quoted a price: "Ten thousand dollars."

The price surprised both Arthur and Isabella. Five years ago, the house cost $25,000.

"I know this price is low. But I need to sell it as soon as possible. The bank has only given me two weeks."

"If it doesn't sell within two weeks, they'll take the house away and auction it off. I won't get a single penny then."

Arthur looked at the exquisite house, his heart filled with mixed emotions.

This is more than just a house; it's a family's dream, a symbol of a social class.

Now, all of this is collapsing.

After leaving Thompson's house, Isabella showed Arthur two more houses.

The situations are all similar. The owners are all middle-class people who suffered heavy losses in the stock market crash and are now forced to sell their houses to pay off debts.

The owner of the second house was a doctor named James Wilson.

According to Wilson himself, he was a surgeon who worked at Presbyterian Hospital and previously earned an annual salary of $8,000, which was considered a high income in New York.

Similarly, he also invested in stocks, putting in $30,000, almost all of his family's savings over the years. But after the stock market crash, these stocks were practically worthless. To make matters worse, he also owed the brokerage firm margin.

The brokerage firm threatened to sue Wilson. He could lose his medical license if he didn't repay the money.

Wilson's wife sat on the sofa in the living room, her eyes red and swollen. She had clearly been crying for a long time.

Mrs. Wilson said, "We were planning to send our daughter to Vassar College next year. Now... now she has to go to public school."

"We're moving to Queens. The houses there are much smaller and much cheaper."

"But at least we still have a home." Her voice was filled with bitterness.

The owner of the third house was a lawyer, and his situation was even more tragic.

"I not only lost all my savings, but also my job. The law firm I worked for went bankrupt. My partner committed suicide during the stock market crash."

"I can't find a job now. Nobody needs lawyers anymore. Everyone's being laid off."

"I'm going to sell the house and take my family back to my hometown in Ohio. Maybe I can find something to do in a small town."

After viewing the three houses, Arthur and Isabella sat in the car in silence for a long time.

"This is the real price of the stock market crash." After a long silence, Isabella finally spoke.

"Beyond those cold numbers and how many points the Dow Jones Industrial Average fell, there are real families and shattered dreams behind them."

Arthur nodded: "These people are believers in the American Dream. They work hard, accumulate wealth, buy houses, and send their children to school."

"They thought they had entered the middle class and that their lives would get better and better. But one failed financial management deal wiped out all their efforts."

"This is the American kill line in 1929," Arthur concluded.

Isabella didn't quite understand: "The kill threshold?"

"It's a line between life and death," Arthur explained.

"Above this line, you are middle class, with a decent life, dignity, and hope."

"But once you fall below that line, you'll plummet, going from middle class to working class, from Park Slope to the Bronx, from private to public schools."

"Moreover, this process is irreversible. Once you lose your middle-class status, it's almost impossible to climb back up. Because what you lose is not only money, but also connections, opportunities, and confidence."

Isabella fell silent. As the daughter of a wealthy family, she had never truly understood this kind of fear.

"Do you have a house you've been eyeing?" she asked.

Arthur thought for a moment:

"Mr. Thompson's house, I suppose. But to be honest, I don't have that much money. Even including the sales commission you gave me, it's only three or four thousand dollars. I might need a loan. I'll discuss it with him again tomorrow."

Isabella blinked.

The next day, Arthur and Isabella returned to Thompson's house and offered to buy it.

Upon hearing this, Thompson's eyes lit up: "Really?"

"real."

Thompson was too overwhelmed to speak. His wife ran out of the kitchen, tears streaming down her face.

Mrs. Thompson choked up and said, "Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. You saved our family."

"You're welcome. It's a fair trade," Arthur said.

At that moment, Isabella gently tugged at Arthur's sleeve and led him aside. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes were somewhat evasive.

"Arthur, um... about the house payment..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked, puzzled.

Isabella took a thick envelope from her handbag and handed it to Arthur.

"What is this?" Arthur asked.

"It's money." Isabella's voice was even lower; she lowered her head, not daring to look Arthur in the eye.

"Ten thousand dollars."

Arthur was stunned. He opened the envelope, and inside was a stack of brand-new hundred-dollar bills, exactly one hundred.

"What...what do you mean by this?" Arthur asked, his voice filled with confusion.

Isabella finally raised her head, her face flushed red to the roots of her ears.

"I paid for it. Consider it... an advance on your payment from the newspaper."

Arthur was both amused and exasperated; ten thousand dollars was almost equivalent to four years' income for an average American family.

"A royalties? Ten thousand dollars? Isabella, do you know how much ten thousand dollars is? That's way too much."

Isabella whispered, "I know. But you need the money right now, don't you?"

"I need the money, but I can't take yours. That's my principle," Arthur said firmly.

Isabella quickly explained, "This isn't my money. It's the newspaper's money. Look, the New York Herald's sales are so good now, it's all thanks to you. Consider this a reward for you."

Her voice lowered again.

"If you don't want to, just consider it a loan. You can pay it back slowly with your future royalties. No interest, pay it back in...in ten years, how about that?"