“You won’t stay in business long doing that.”
Malik looked at the elderly man.
“Maybe not.”
He took a clean container and filled it with warm beans, potatoes, and the last pieces of meat.
The customer shook his head.
“Suit yourself.”
He picked up his food and stepped away, muttering about foolish boys who did not understand money.
Malik did not answer.
He carried the container around the cart and knelt slightly so he could place it safely in the elderly man’s hands.
The old man looked down at the meal.
Then he looked up.
“I told you I don’t have anything to pay with.”
Malik smiled.
“It’s on me, sir.”
The elderly man blinked.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Young man—”
“Please.
It’s hot, and you should eat before it gets cold.”
For several seconds, the man did not speak.
His hands rested around the warm container, and something softened in his face.
At last, he nodded.
“Thank you.”
Malik returned to the cart and poured a little hot water into a clean cup.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“That would be kind.”
Malik brought it to him.
The elderly man took a small bite of the food.
He chewed slowly, as though tasting something he had not expected to enjoy.
Then he looked up again.
“Did you cook this?”
“My mother taught me.”
“She must be a wonderful cook.”
“She is.”
The man smiled.
“Tell her an old stranger said so.”
“I will.”
Malik felt strangely pleased.
He had received compliments about his food before, but this one seemed different.
The old man spoke without trying to flatter him or make a performance of his gratitude.
He simply seemed grateful.
For a while, Malik continued serving customers while the man ate.
The market moved around them.
A wagon passed, its wheels grinding over the uneven street.
A horse stamped near the watering trough.
Two women walked by discussing the price of flour.
The old man watched the passing people with a thoughtful expression.
Occasionally, he looked toward Malik, who was busy cleaning the counter or checking the fire beneath the pot.
When the last customer left, Malik sat on an overturned wooden crate to rest.
His stomach gave a quiet rumble.
He reached into his bag and found the bread Ruth had packed.
There was one small piece left.
He broke it in half.
Before he could eat, the elderly man spoke.
“You haven’t had your own lunch, have you?”
Malik looked up.
“Not yet.”
“Then why did you give me such a generous serving?”
“There was enough.”
The man glanced toward the nearly empty pot.
“Was there?”
Malik did not answer immediately.
He folded the remaining bread in its cloth.
“I can cook more when I get home.”
The old man studied him.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen.”
He repeated the word quietly.
“And you run this business by yourself?”
“My mother helps me cook.”
“Do you attend school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before all this?”
“Before and after.”
“And on Saturdays?”
“Every Saturday.
Sundays too, when the market is busy.”
The man looked across the street.
“That’s a great deal of work for someone your age.”
Malik shrugged.
“People have to work.”
“Yes,” the old man said.
“They do.”
There was no judgment in his voice.
He looked at his empty food container.
“Have you always lived here?”
“All my life.”
“Do you like this town?”
Malik considered the question.
“Mostly.”
“What do you like about it?”
“The mountains.
The trains.
The way people help each other when things get hard.”
The old man smiled slightly.
“And what don’t you like?”
Malik looked toward the cart.
“The roads.”
The man laughed.
It was a quiet, surprised laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.
“Those certainly need work.”
Malik grinned.
“My wheel gets stuck near the bridge every other day.”
“Then perhaps you need a better wheel.”
“Probably.”
“Have you tried fixing it?”
“Many times.”
“Why not replace it?”
Malik looked down at his bread.
“Because fixing it costs less.”
The old man stopped smiling.
He understood the answer.
Malik took a bite and looked toward the railway tracks.
A freight train was passing slowly beyond the market, its dark cars carrying timber and sacks of grain toward the eastern cities.
On the side of each car was a familiar painted name.
WHITCOMB WESTERN.
Malik had seen those words thousands of times.
To him, they meant trains, travel, machinery, and distant places.
The old man followed his gaze.
“You like trains?”
“Very much.”
“Why?”
Malik thought for a moment.
“Because they can take people somewhere else.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what do you mean?”
Malik watched the final freight car pass.
“I guess I like knowing there are roads I haven’t traveled yet.”
The elderly man grew quiet.
He had spent much of his life traveling those roads.
He had crossed mountains in winter, ridden through deserts under a burning sun, and watched small settlements become busy towns.
But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten what it felt like to look at the world with hope.
Now a sixteen-year-old boy with an empty stomach and an old food cart was reminding him.
“That’s a good way to think about it,” he said.
Malik smiled faintly.
“I’d like to work on trains someday.”
“As a conductor?”
“Maybe.
But I’d rather help build them.”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“Build them?”
“Engines.
Wheels.
Bridges.
Things like that.”
“Have you studied machines?”
“Only what I can find in books.”
“Do you have drawings?”
Malik hesitated.
“A few.”
“May I see them?”
The request surprised him.
Most adults listened politely when he mentioned his drawings, then changed the subject.
He reached beneath the cart and took out his worn school notebook.
Several pages were bent, and the cover had been repaired with brown paper.
He opened it carefully.
The elderly man accepted the book and examined the first sketch.
It showed the axle of Malik’s food cart, with notes about how the wheel might be strengthened.
The next drawing showed a simple steam engine.