Chapter 2 - The Weight of an Apron
The number 66 bus was packed to the gills with wet wool, stale humidity, and the grinding exhaust of mid-afternoon traffic on Chicago Avenue.
Marissa sat pressed against the scratched acrylic window, her knees pulled tight together, the folded apron buried deep inside her canvas tote bag. She stared at her lap. Her knuckles were white where her fingers interlaced.
*Ninety-two dollars.*
That was all she had in her bank account after paying the landlord the rent extension on Monday. Her mother’s heart medication—a specialized blood thinner and beta-blocker cocktail that insurance refused to cover without a prior authorization that was permanently pending—cost four hundred and fifteen dollars at the pharmacy counter.
The prescription ran out on Friday morning. Today was Tuesday.
A single tear tracked down her left cheek, catching the gray light of the city. She wiped it away with the back of her wrist, angry at her own weakness. Crying didn't generate cash flow. Crying didn't keep Clara Evans's heart beating in steady rhythm.
Three vehicles behind the city bus, a black sedan idled in the stop-and-go gridlock.
Inside, Nolan glanced sideways from the passenger seat. “You’re really doing this?”
Ethan didn’t take his eyes off the bus ahead. His hands rested at ten and two on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Vance’s demeanor wasn't an isolated incident. That kind of cruelty is institutional. It rots from the head down.”
“Ethan, you run a twelve-billion-dollar global logistics trust. You spent yesterday negotiating maritime corridors in Singapore. Now you’re trailing a CTA bus down Chicago Avenue like a private eye.”
“Efficiency without decency is just organized cruelty,” Ethan said, echoing the exact phrase he had used against his own board three hours earlier. “Call Marcus. Tell him I need the complete corporate records, title deeds, and debt obligations for Harper’s Table on my encrypted tablet before the bus reaches Western Avenue.”
Nolan sighed, pulling out his encrypted smartphone. “Marcus is going to think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Marcus is paid enough not to care whether I’m sane,” Ethan said quietly. “Make the call.”
Up ahead, the bus hissed to a stop at the corner of Western and Grand. Marissa stepped down into the damp autumn chill, pulled her thin wool cardigan tight around her shoulders, and began the six-block walk toward the weather-beaten brick two-flats of West Town.
May you like
Ethan watched her silhouette diminish in the drizzle. He didn't follow her on foot. He didn't want to frighten her. He needed facts before he delivered solutions.
***
