The rejection arrived while Emma Carter was still standing beneath the glass awning of the recruitment office, waiting for the rain to weaken. The woman on the telephone had sounded almost cheerful, as though delivering disappointing news were a harmless administrative chore.
"Emma, I'm sorry. We've decided to hire someone with more experience," she said.
Then, before Emma could ask what experience three interviews, a written assessment, and a month of unpaid preparation had failed to demonstrate, the woman added, "Please don't call again about the position."
The line went dead, and Emma stood there with her phone pressed against her ear long after the screen had gone dark. For three months she had imagined this job as a door opening, not merely for herself but for the small Brooklyn restaurant whose bills had gradually become her family's entire conversation. She had memorized the nonprofit's annual report, traveled twice across the city for interviews, and rehearsed her answers in the mirror until even her mother knew them by heart. Now she had been dismissed in less than twenty seconds, as though the time she had spent hoping did not belong to anyone important.
A passing truck swept rainwater over the curb, soaking the hem of her trousers. Emma stepped back too late and looked down at the new shoes she had bought on a credit card because the interviewer had once mentioned that the organization valued a professional appearance. The shoes had rubbed blisters into both heels, and the expensive umbrella she had borrowed from her mother had surrendered to the wind five minutes earlier. She folded it with slow, furious care and dropped it into the nearest trash can.
Her mother had sent a message during the interview asking whether she should save Emma a slice of apple pie. Emma read it and felt something twist in her chest, because pie was the family's language for celebration and her mother could no longer afford to waste ingredients on celebration. She typed, Didn't get it, and stared at the words before deleting them. There would be time to tell Lorraine Carter the truth once Emma was safely through the restaurant door, where her mother would try to hide how worried she was.
Rain ran down the window of an idling yellow taxi at the corner. The driver, a man with dark hair beginning to silver above his temples, leaned across and lowered the passenger window. "Are you getting in," he called, "or are you planning to win an argument with the rain?" His voice held a dry amusement that suggested he was not making fun of her so much as offering an exit from a very bad afternoon. Emma looked at him, then at the approaching bus that would take nearly forty minutes to bring her anywhere close to home.
"Excuse me?" she said, uncertain she had heard him correctly. "You look like the rain is winning," he replied, and a small smile appeared beneath the tiredness around his eyes. The taxi was old enough to have scuffs along its door handles but clean inside, with a cardboard air freshener hanging from the mirror and a folded newspaper on the passenger seat. Emma had ten dollars in her wallet and very little patience left, yet another gust of wet wind made the decision for her.