But his father had become ill during a bitter winter and never recovered.
Malik had been twelve.
After the funeral, the house seemed to grow smaller.
The bills seemed to grow larger.
His mother tried to hide her worries, but Malik often heard her counting coins late at night.
He remembered the first time the electric lights had gone out because the payment was overdue.
His younger sister, Clara, had cried when the house fell dark, frightened that something terrible had happened.
Malik had been the one to find the old oil lamp.
He had promised her they would have light again.
At fourteen, he had made a promise that most grown men would have struggled to keep.
Now, two years later, he was still trying.
Clara appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing a nightdress that had become too short around her ankles.
She was nine, with curly hair that never stayed in place and the same dark eyes as her brother.
“Are you leaving already?” she asked.
“Only for a little while.”
“Will you bring back a potato?”
Malik laughed softly.
“A potato?”
“A big one.”
“What would you do with a big potato?”
“Eat half and save half.”
He knelt in front of her.
“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.