Emma Caldwell squinted at the newspaper spread before her, the late afternoon sun turning the thin curtains into glowing screens that did little to shield her small kitchen from the heat. Her finger traced the edge of an advertisement nestled between notices for patent medicines and farm equipment. She'd circled it twice already with the stub of a pencil, the graphite making a soft scratching sound against the cheap paper as she considered the words for the third time that afternoon.

The kettle on her small stove whistled, a high-pitched cry that matched the tension building inside her chest. Emma rose from the worn chair, its wooden legs scraping against the cracked linoleum floor. She moved with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to small spaces, stepping carefully around the table that took up most of her kitchen.

Steam billowed as she poured hot water into a chipped cup, the scent of chamomile rising to meet her. Emma tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, the practical bun at the nape of her neck already coming loose after a day of anxious fingers running through it. Her simple blue dress hung a bit loose on her frame, evidence of meals missed to stretch her dwindling funds.