“Well, good for you.” She didn’t look at me, even though the practiced motion of kneading made it clear she could do it in her sleep. Maybe she was one of those people who hated kids. Maybe she thought I was just another silly Stepford wife after all.

The air was chilly between us, and her strong hands flipped and pounded the dough. She glanced at mine, still marred with streaks of unincorporated white flour.

“You’ve got to give it more force.” She reached out and took my dough, clenching it in one hand as she raised it and smacked it against the counter top. Then she flipped it, folded it, and dug the heels of her hands into it. The dough that had seemed so resistant to my hands just succumbed to hers.

She battered it rhythmically for another few minutes and then knocked it back to me. “There. Now we wait.”

Of course, Lena wasn’t good at waiting. Less than fifteen minutes later she’d turned off the beans, left the dough on the counter, and was driving me to “some taco truck Brady said is the best.”

The rain had blown past, and the sun seemed to turn the standing pools of water on the roads to steam. We sped over the interstate and exited into a part of Houston I hadn’t seen before.

The access road took us under the overpass, and in the darkness I saw a cluster of men, one an older man in a battered army jacket despite the heat, holding a sign that read Hungry. Please help. Lena’s gaze darted to them. “Ex-military,” she said softly, and I wondered if she would pull over. The light changed, and we came to a stop beside him. He was about my father’s age, but the lines in his face were deeper and his shoulders more stooped.

The man drew closer to us, holding the cardboard sign in front of him with trembling hands. I fumbled for my bag and found it empty of cash. As I met his eyes and shook my head, his resigned expression didn’t change. He simply turned his attention to the next car in line, and when the light changed, he stepped back onto the pavement.

I wanted to do something, find something to help, but with a spray of water from our tires, we were back into the blinding sunlight as Lena skated through the intersection on a yellow light and went barreling down a side street lined with strip malls pocked with empty stores.