—I know this woman who sold fish in Boca Chica, working for this man, and little by little she saved enough to buy her own casita fish stand. And now she makes three times as much as before, one woman said.

—I don’t make enough to save. My children haven’t had a piece of meat in two weeks. They need notebooks for school.

—I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, Miraluz said.

—But when has our life been easy? one woman said.

—That’s true, another agreed.

—Who has family in the States? Miraluz asked.

All the women except one raised their hands.

—Okay, maybe from the money being sent to us we can put some aside and start a pool from which we can build our company.

One woman laughed. —Compañía? You’re ambitious!

—Besides, the money my sister sends me is for medicine. I have high blood pressure and I can’t breathe without an inhaler.

—If you didn’t work in the factory, you wouldn’t need the inhaler, another woman said, annoyed that no one was cooperating. Maybe Miraluz was on to something.

—You mean like we would be paying taxes, but to ourselves, form our own collective?

—Yes, a collective, Miraluz said, liking the word very much.

—But how do we know we could trust each other? Who holds the money?

—I’m not giving anyone my money, said another.

—Mujeres, please…this is a conversation. I know we won’t find the solution right away.

—And on hungry stomachs, no less, one woman said, eyeing the cake. She shifted her weight in the plastic seat Miraluz had provided. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, the small living room lights dimmed. Miraluz turned on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

—Do you know the story of the child blowing bubbles in India? Miraluz lit a candle on the table. The living room took on a warm glow that livened the colors of their bright shirts.

The woman looked at Miraluz with anticipation.

—The boy started blowing bubbles toward the arid fields. At first he was alone. But soon, more children blew bubbles in the same direction. On the other side of the fields, the farmers prayed for rain so they could grow their crops. Every day they prayed. Then one day, they woke up and there was rain. The children thought it was their bubbles. The farmers thought it was their prayers.

—Are you asking us to pray? one woman asked. —Weren’t we talking about starting a business together?

—No. I’m saying, for those of you who want to work with me on starting something, I welcome you to my house every Sunday and we can work toward that goal. For the others who can’t or won’t, for whatever reason, I respect you and ask you to pray that we succeed. Regardless, if we think with similar intentions, together we will be victorious.

One woman clapped and soon the others followed. Embarrassed, Miraluz stood up to serve the cake and unwrap the other dishes the women had brought.