The gray ash of the city coated everything it touched—streets, buildings, even the worn leather of George Wilson’s garage—but it could not dull the fire in Myrtle Wilson’s eyes. At twenty-six , she carried the warmth of Bogotá in her skin, a subtle olive glow that hinted at sunlit hills far from this dust-choked wasteland. She tugged at the scarf around her neck, smoothing the front of her emerald dress, and caught herself in the cracked window of the garage. Her dark hair, once a deep chestnut, now gleamed blonde, a deliberate mask meant to bring her closer to a world that had always looked past women like her.