The little house smelled of potatoes and onions, and somewhere near the back wall a loose board tapped in the wind.
Malik looked at the notice again.
“When is it due?”
“Monday.”
“That’s six days.”
“I know.”
“I can work longer this weekend.”
Ruth’s face changed.
“No.”
“Mama, I can make enough if I start earlier.”
“You already work too much.”
“We need the money.”
“We also need you to finish school.”
He leaned back.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her voice was not angry.
It was frightened.
She reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Malik, I have watched you grow up too quickly.
I can’t stop you from helping us, but I won’t let you give away everything that belongs to your childhood.”
He stared at their joined hands.
“What happens if I don’t help?”
Ruth had no answer ready.
He looked up at her.
“I don’t mind working, Mama.
I just don’t want you and Clara sitting in the dark again.”
Her eyes filled, though she tried to hide it.
She squeezed his hand.
“You are my son before you are anything else.
Don’t forget that.”
He nodded slowly.
They sat together until Clara came running into the kitchen to ask whether dinner was ready.
Then Ruth folded the notice, put it away, and began preparing the meal.
That night, Malik lay awake longer than usual.
The wind had quieted, and the town beyond the window was nearly silent.
He could hear his mother moving in her room and Clara breathing softly through the thin wall.
He thought about Miss Bell’s words.
Engineering school.
He tried to imagine himself inside a large workshop, wearing a clean shirt and working beside men who understood machines.
He imagined drawing plans that other people would use to build bridges, engines, and useful things.
Then he imagined the cost.
Books.
Travel.
Tuition.
A place to live.
Most of all, he imagined leaving his mother and sister without the income from his cart.
The dream slowly faded.
He turned toward the wall and closed his eyes.
By morning, he had decided to take more food to market.
The next few days were difficult.
A cold rain moved across the valley, turning the streets slippery and making the cart harder to push.
The left wheel began to squeal so loudly that people sometimes turned around before Malik reached them.
He wrapped the axle with a strip of cloth and used a little grease from the blacksmith’s shop.
The repair helped, but only for a while.
On Thursday, fewer customers came than usual because the weather kept several ranch families away.
Friday was better, though Malik had to spend part of his earnings replacing a cracked pot.
By Saturday morning, he was tired enough that his eyes burned.
Still, he rose before dawn.
Ruth was already awake.
She had prepared extra bread and wrapped it carefully.
“You’ll need this,” she said.
Malik counted the pieces.
“That’s too much for us to sell.”
“Mrs.
Alvarez gave me flour yesterday in exchange for fixing three dresses.”
“She always gives you more than you ask for.”
“She says you work too hard.”
Malik smiled.
“Everybody says that.”
“Maybe everybody is right.”
He slipped the bread into the cart.
Ruth watched him from the doorway.
“Promise me you’ll eat something today.”
“I promise.”
“And come home before it’s completely dark.”
“I will.”
She reached up and straightened his collar, a habit she had never stopped even as he grew taller.
Then she pressed a small folded handkerchief into his palm.
It had belonged to his father.
The cloth was faded blue, with one corner repaired by hand.
“He used to take this whenever he went to work,” she said.
Malik looked at it.
“I thought you kept it in the drawer.”
“I did.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
Ruth smiled sadly.
“Because sometimes I think you need to feel that he’s still walking beside you.”
Malik carefully folded the cloth and put it in his pocket.
He hugged her before leaving.
The morning was bright but cold.
Clouds drifted above the mountains, and the muddy roads were beginning to dry beneath the sun.
Malik pushed his cart toward town, passing open fields and fences where horses grazed on the last grass of the season.
On the far side of the valley, ranch hands were moving cattle toward a watering place.
Their voices carried across the open land, mixed with the creaking of leather saddles and the occasional sharp call of a bird.
It was a familiar world.
A hard world, sometimes, but one filled with people who understood the value of work.
Malik liked watching the ranchers ride past.
He admired the way they moved with their horses, the easy strength in their arms and the quiet confidence that came from years spent outdoors.
But his own hands belonged to the cart.