The market was already alive when Julia arrived—voices rising, carts clattering, and the smell of rain-soaked fruit mixing with diesel fumes. She wasn’t looking for him. At least, that’s what she told herself.
But then she heard it.
“Good guy, that one,” a vendor said, stacking crates of oranges. “Didn’t take the bonus, said it belonged to the rest of the crew.”
“Yeah,” another added, chuckling. “Said he’s just grateful for honest work. You don’t hear that much these days.”
Julia’s hand froze over her bag of rice. The air seemed to thicken around her.
They were talking about him.
She turned her head just in time to catch a familiar figure across the street—Brandon, sleeves rolled up, handing a coin to a barefoot boy who couldn’t have been older than six. The child ran off laughing, a
