Chapter 2 - The Ride to PilsenThe matte-black armored sedan glided silently through the dark, rain-soaked streets of Chicago.
Inside, the leather seats smelled of expensive cedar, fresh rain, and the warm roasted chicken sitting in my lap. The central heating hummed softly, washing away the freezing chill that had penetrated my thin uniform jacket.
I sat near the right passenger door, holding the warm package tight against my knees, while Gabriel sat on the left, his reading glasses back on as he reviewed a thick leather file under the soft amber cabin light.
For ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
I looked out the tinted window as the neon lights of the Loop faded into the familiar, weathered brick buildings and iron fire escapes of Pilsen.
"You mentioned you repaired books," Gabriel spoke suddenly, without looking up from his file.
I blinked, turning my head to look at him. "How did you know that?"
Gabriel set his fountain pen inside the file folder, closing it with a soft thud. He turned his slate-gray eyes onto mine.
"When you grabbed your canvas bag earlier," Gabriel explained, gesturing slightly toward my lap, "I noticed the calluses on your thumb and index finger, along with faint traces of dried bone-folder paste along your knuckles. My grandfather was a rare book collector. I recognize the hands of a restorer."
A small, genuine smile touched my lips before I could stop it. It was the first time in six weeks anyone had recognized me as an artisan rather than a temporary hourly worker.
"I worked at Vance & Sons Antiquarian Binding for nine years," I confessed softly. "Mr. Vance passed away six weeks ago, and his estate liquidated the shop to pay off commercial debts. I’ve been taking catering shifts ever since."
Gabriel listened intently, his gray eyes searching my face with a quiet, unwavering focus.
"Nine years," Gabriel murmured. "Leather binding? Gold leaf tooling? Paper washing?"
"All of it," I answered, feeling a small spark of my old pride warm my chest. "16th-century vellum was my specialty. I loved giving old, forgotten stories another hundred years of life."
Gabriel went quiet for a moment, looking out the window as the sedan pulled up to the curb outside my run-down brick apartment building on 18th Street.
The streetlights flickered against the damp pavement.
"Your stop, Clara," Gabriel said softly.
I reached for the door handle, then turned back to look at him. "Thank you again, Mr. Hart. For the food... and the ride. Eli is going to be very happy tonight."
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"Goodnight, Clara," Gabriel replied, a faint, rare softening touching the corners of his lips. "Give Eli my best regarding the potatoes."
I stepped out into the cold night air, holding my son's warm dinner against my chest, and watched as the long black sedan disappeared quietly down the street into the dark.
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