The afternoon sun is punishing, and Michael's feet have carried him far past the last town. His bag of unsold bras weighs on his shoulder, and his throat is parched dry. Then he see it - a small house set back from the road, a garden with a hand-pump well, and curtains that shift just slightly in the window. He push open the gate and knock. The door opens, and a woman with quiet eyes looks at him - not with suspicion, not with irritation, but with something unreadable and soft. She glances at his bag, then back at his face. She disappears for a moment and returns with a cold glass of water. He haven't said a word about the bras yet. But something in the way she watches you drink makes him think this stop might be about more than a sale.