Santiago never got another shift from her.
And getting paid didn’t make Sloan pretend none of it had happened.
“He paid me because I pushed back,” she said.
But the part I kept thinking about wasn’t Santiago.
It was the car.
A few nights later, I found Sloan looking at listings again.
“So,” I said. “Car fund.”
She nodded.
“You’ve finally got your first 1100.”
“Actually, I think I’m going to wait.”
That surprised me. “You’ve talked about this car all summer.”
“I still want one.”
“Then why wait?”
Sloan looked at the balance in her savings account.
“Because I don’t want to spend everything I have.”
I smiled.
“Very responsible.”
“That’s not why.”
She put down her phone.
Then she said something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
“Having money saved makes it easier to say no to people.”
I didn’t answer.
“If I really needed Santiago’s $400 on Saturday, maybe I would’ve gone back.”
That hit me harder than anything she’d said all summer.
She’d wanted a car because, to her, money meant freedom.
Now she’d learned a different version of the same lesson.
Sometimes freedom wasn’t what money let you buy.
It was what money let you refuse.
A week later, Sloan had to deal with the final paperwork connected to the wage dispute.
I automatically grabbed my purse.
“I’ll come.”
“I figured.”
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