Two days later, the rising sun pierced through the lingering fog that clung to the harbor.
The salty sea breeze, heavy with spray, pounded against the pier's pilings, producing a steady, rhythmic crash.
Shane and Tom's footsteps echoed sharply across the empty pier.
"Is Linda's situation settled? She'll be able to report to the company front desk next Monday," Shane asked.
Tom rubbed his calloused hands together; the mist from his breath vanished instantly in the morning sunlight. "She wants to go… she's just afraid she won't manage it…" His voice trailed, nearly swallowed by the sound of the waves.
Shane stopped and placed a firm hand on Tom's shoulder. "Remember when I first came here? A hundred-pound cargo box would pin me down, and every step left me aching all over. Now… I can lift those boxes with one hand."
The sea breeze carried the sharp scent of brine. "The first step is always the hardest," Shane said.
Through the clearing fog, a freighter glided into its berth, splitting the grey-blue water with its bow. Shane's voice was calm but resolute: "Opportunity is like this morning fog. If you don't seize it, it will vanish with the sun."
Tom felt Shane's hand tighten on his shoulder. "Linda is stronger than you think. She deserves a better life."
Tom stared down at his boots. He knew the hard life Linda endured at the garment factory—ten-hour days, needles biting her fingers, wages that barely covered a cup of coffee. Thanks to Shane, she now had a real chance. Her salary would more than triple, she'd have proper coffee breaks, and even paid sick leave.
From factory worker to office employee, the leap was the dream of countless lower-class immigrants—and it was now within reach for Linda and Tom.
But Tom's chest tightened. He feared failing Shane's trust, and worse, disappointing Linda.
"I…" Tom began, voice thick.
Shane's determined eyes reminded him of the day he first stepped off the ocean liner, staring up at the Statue of Liberty. The briny wind filled his lungs, and his eyes stung.
Shane unfolded a pale yellow sheet of paper. "I've already enrolled Linda at Bryant & Stratton College, Manhattan campus."
The gilded school emblem gleamed faintly in the morning light. Below, the words Stenography and Secretarial Courses were stamped with a red mark: Tuition Paid in Full.
"This is the receipt. Take her tomorrow," Shane instructed, handing it to Tom. The breeze fluttered the corners.
He also drew a letter from his inner pocket, embossed with the eagle of the United Auto Workers. "Prepare. I'll arrange for you and the foreman to visit Packard Motor Company through union channels."
Tom took the letter, recalling Linda's late nights under the kerosene lamp, diligently copying notes. On the flyleaf of her Business English Handbook she had written in neat pencil: "If not now, when?" The handwriting flickered like fireflies in the darkness.
Now, those tiny fireflies seemed to carry the brilliance of the Manhattan skyline.
"Shane, I…" Tom's voice caught in his throat. The harbor fog mingled with tears he didn't try to separate.
This was the first time someone had drawn a path upward for him and his wife from their cramped Lower East Side apartment.
"Remember to dress well tomorrow," Shane said, a smile tugging at his lips. "That place is full of…" He paused, pretending to adjust nonexistent glasses. Tom blinked, confused. "…respectable people with gold-rimmed spectacles."
Their laughter, sudden and light, startled a nearby flock of seagulls.
The horn of a departing freighter echoed across the water. Tom carefully tucked the receipt into his shirt pocket, alongside Linda's secret good luck charm from last Christmas.
As the morning fog lifted, the sun glinted off crane booms and East Coast United trucks loading cargo. The sunlight reflected in tiny flecks across the boxes, sparkling like shards of crystal.
When Shane opened the oak door to the pier office, the smell of cigar smoke greeted him.
Mr. Hawke sat behind a cluttered desk, a half-smoked cigar in hand, eyes scanning a ledger. "Shane? So early?"
"I'm here to resign, Mr. Hawke," Shane said respectfully.
Hawke froze mid-gesture, narrowing his eyes. "Resign? You found another job?"
"Yes, sir. A better opportunity," Shane confirmed.
Hawke snuffed out his cigar, leaning forward slightly. "Which company?"
"East Coast United Warehousing and Freight Company," Shane replied. "A friend invited me to join. I think… it's a real chance for me."
The office fell silent. Only distant horns and workers' shouts filtered through.
"East Coast United?" Hawke finally said, chuckling. "The new company renting warehouses at Pier 4? Supposedly tied to the union? Who's in charge?"
Shane's throat bobbed. "Volker Markovsky Novaka. I met him on the ocean liner to New York."
Hawke scanned his documents, then looked back at Shane. "Do you know what you're dealing with? These Eastern Europeans aren't simple—they operate in a dangerous world far beyond your imagination."
Shane nodded, listening. He understood Hawke's concern.
Hawke sighed. "Shane, you're smart, ambitious. But some paths have no return. You're young—don't throw yourself away for money."
"I understand, sir. But I must seize this chance. I have my reasons," Shane replied firmly.
Hawke regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Since you've decided, I won't stop you." He handed Shane a form. "Fill this out, and you're free to go."
Shane signed quickly, returning the paper. Hawke's expression softened with faint regret. "If you ever regret this, the pier gates will always be open to you."
Shane inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. Hawke. I'll remember that."
He turned and left, the lingering smell of cigars fading behind him. Stepping into the corridor, he no longer hesitated, walking briskly toward the exit.