Chapter 21 The Amtrak groaned into the Houston station in a plume of diesel. Angela, carrying a small bag, went with the crowd to the street. Heat hit her like a wet towel. The air tasted new-salt, oil, something electric. Around her, rapid-fire Spanish and English overlapped with honking horns and boom boxes blaring from open windows. The buildings weren't the skyscrapers in the postcards yet, but the bones were rising. People moved fast, dressed sharper than back home, their eyes bright and hungry. It awed her-and left her a little unmoored. She found the cheapest room she could: a damp, narrow box in a no-name motel that at least was clean. She had no contacts and barely any Spanish; she got by on simple English, a few phrases she picked up overnight, and her hands. She ate the cheapest takeout she could find, counting each dollar twice. She did not back down. Her gaze stayed bright. She watched, listened, and learned. She figured out where the city's current flowed. In the wholesale strip and flea markets, foot traffic never stopped. Buyers came from everywhere. She put her hands to work. First she minded a stall from open to close, calling to customers in awkward English and the scraps of Spanish she was memorizing. Then she landed in a small garment shop, hunched over an old machine, paid by the piece. Needles nicked her fingers until the skin grew tough. She kept her word, worked clean, and paid attention. Pennies stacked into dollars; her name carried a little weight. Now and then she used old contacts up north to broker tiny trades-specialty foods one way, closeout goods the other. It was all hard miles, none of it easy. She didn't quit. Up in the northern city, Gideon had taken a desk in a sleepy municipal office. The cold went to his lungs now; a change in the weather had him hacking through the night. The straight lines of his posture sagged. He lived in an old company-owned apartment. The days felt like standing water. Through careful, scattered calls he learned this much: Angela had gone south, to Houston; she was hustling; it was hard. Each scrap drove a pin into him. Remorse and longing ate his hours. He wanted to go. To see if she was safe. To help. But how, and as who? His body was a broken instrument. His pockets were thin enough that he could barely scrape together the fare to go south. So he stared at the horizon and let the guilt gnaw. Chapter 21 91.30% flipping stock paid little and drew heavy competition. To stand, she needed her own look. She thought about the heft and structure of northern coats and the airy line of southern dresses. She began to sketch, trying to braid the two into something new. She emptied her savings, borrowed a little more, and took her patterns to a shop she trusted. They ran a small batch of dresses and shirts. She shouldered the big samples bag and went door to door-wholesale marts, busy corners, anywhere someone might stop. At first no one did. She kept at it, telling each piece's story, coaxing people to try them Slowly, the shapes caught. The stitching held. Customers came back. Small shop owners started asking for orders. It was not smooth. A shady producer swapped in bad fabric and ruined a run. Local muscle leaned on vendors for "fees." The worst time of all, a partner ran off with the cash meant for a load of premium cloth and left her almost sleeping on the street, with everything nearly wiped out. She bit down and kept moving. She leaned on her reputation to get fabric on credit. She pre-sold to buyers who trusted her. She worked until her hands cramped and the night bled into morning. That stubborn streak-her refusal to lie down-hauled her out each time. Business found its legs. She moved from the sidewalk and the swap meet to a tiny lease on a side street. Over the door, she hung a hand-painted sign: Summers Apparel. Chapter 21 91.30% Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.