“Then I’ll see what I can find.”
Clara wrapped her arms around his neck.
He hugged her, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and the lavender water their mother sometimes used on her clothes.
For a moment, the weight of the coming day felt lighter.
Then he stood, pulled on his faded gray coat, and stepped outside.
The cold air caught him immediately.
He walked to the small shed beside the house, pulled the canvas from his cart, and checked the cooking stove.
One handle had loosened again, so he tightened it with a short piece of wire before loading the morning food.
The cart creaked when he pushed it through the gate.
Malik leaned forward and started toward town.
Northwood lay in a wide valley surrounded by dry hills, scattered ranches, and distant mountains.
It had been built in the days when cattle drives and mining wagons were common sights.
Though the railway had brought new businesses and electric wires to part of town, many families still depended on horses, wells, wood stoves, and hard work.
The main street was lined with wooden storefronts, hitching posts, and raised boardwalks.
Wind and weather had worn deep cracks into the road, and after a heavy rain, the wagon ruts filled with muddy water.
Malik knew every rough place.
He knew where the cart would shake, where the left wheel might catch, and where he needed to slow down before crossing the old wooden bridge.
He also knew which houses had chimneys smoking before sunrise and which workers would be waiting for breakfast.
At the railway depot, he stopped beside the freight platform and unfolded the canvas awning.
Steam rose from the pot as he lifted the lid.
A few minutes later, the first customer approached.
“Morning, young man,” called Mr.
Wilson, a gray-haired railway worker whose coat always smelled faintly of coal smoke.
“Morning, sir.”
“Beans and potatoes today?”
“Yes, sir.
Fresh bread too.”
Mr.
Wilson dug into his pocket.
“Then give me the usual.”
Malik filled a tin bowl and handed it over with a wooden spoon.
Mr.
Wilson took one bite, closed his eyes, and nodded approvingly.
“Your mother made these?”
“She helped.”
“Tell her she’s better than half the cooks between here and Denver.”
Malik smiled.
“I’ll tell her.”
The old worker paid and moved toward the platform.
Other customers followed, some carrying lunch pails, others still wearing their night-shift jackets.
A few spoke to Malik about the weather or the cattle market, but most were too tired for conversation.
He served them quickly, wiping the counter between customers and keeping the stove hot.
By the time the school bell rang in the distance, he had earned enough to buy another sack of potatoes and a little flour.
It was not a great deal, but it was a start.
He packed away the remaining food, secured the cart behind the general store, and hurried toward school.
Malik entered his classroom just as the teacher began writing a problem on the board.
Miss Bell, a thin woman with silver-rimmed spectacles, paused when she saw him.
“Cutting it close again, Mr.
Coleman.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
She studied his tired face for a moment.
“Take your seat.”
Malik sat near the back window and opened his notebook.
His hands smelled faintly of cooked beans and wood smoke, but he held his pencil carefully and began copying the numbers from the board.
Mathematics was his favorite subject.
Numbers made sense to him in a way that money sometimes did not.
With numbers, a problem usually had an answer.
If he worked long enough and followed the steps, he could find it.
Outside the classroom, life was more complicated.
A family could work from dawn until dark and still struggle to pay its bills.
A good person could fall ill and never get better.
A child could lose a father and suddenly become responsible for things he barely understood.
But on paper, Malik could calculate the strength of a beam or the distance a train would travel in an hour.
He liked drawing machines too.
In the back of his notebook, hidden behind lessons and homework, were small sketches of engines, wagon wheels, and the iron bridges he had seen in railway books.
One drawing showed a better axle for his food cart.
Another showed a small stove that would use less fuel.
He had never owned proper tools for building either one, but he liked imagining what might be possible.
That afternoon, Miss Bell stopped beside his desk as the other students gathered their books.
“Malik, may I speak with you?”
He looked up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She held one of his notebooks.
“I’ve been looking at your drawings.”
His stomach tightened.
“I wasn’t drawing during lessons.”
“I know.”
She opened the notebook to a page showing the inside of a railway engine.
“Where did you learn this?”
“Books, mostly.
And watching the mechanics at the depot.”
“Has anyone taught you technical drawing?”
“No, ma’am.”
Miss Bell looked at him for a long moment.
“You have a gift for understanding how things fit together.”
Malik lowered his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Have you ever thought about studying engineering?”
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
He looked toward the window, where the afternoon sun was falling across the dusty schoolyard.
“Engineering schools are expensive.”
“Some offer assistance.”
“Maybe.”
Miss Bell closed the notebook.
“Don’t dismiss the idea simply because it seems far away.”
Malik nodded, though he did not know what else to say.
She returned his book.
“Your future is worth thinking about, Malik.”
He thanked her and left, carrying those words with him.
But when he reached the general store and saw his old cart waiting beside the wall, reality returned quickly.
The wheel still leaned to one side.
The stove still needed fuel.
And his family still needed dinner.
He pushed the cart toward the afternoon market, where ranch families came into town for supplies.
The streets were busier now.
Horses stood outside the feed store, wagons moved past the blacksmith’s shop, and children ran along the boardwalk carrying small bags of sweets.