“Get in out of the wet,” she called out over the traffic. “I brought cinnamon tea.”
I climbed in, pulling the heavy door shut against the chilly air. Marisol drove toward a quiet café near the river, the rhythm of her wipers clicking steady and clean against the windshield.
“How was the presentation at the community center this afternoon?” she asked, glancing over as we stopped at a red light.
“Good,” I said, taking a sip of the warm tea. “A girl came up to me afterwardâtwenty-one, maybe twenty-two. She said her uncle had opened a utility account in her name when she was seventeen, and now her credit was ruined before she could even apply for her first apartment. She thought she was just bad with money because thatâs what her family told her whenever she asked why her bills were so high.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I gave her the template letter for dispute filings,” I said. “And I told her what you told me that first afternoon in your office: You aren’t careless. You’re just being targeted.“
Marisol smiled gently, keeping her eyes on the wet asphalt ahead. “It takes a long time for people to stop confusing obedience with love.”
