The old records lived in three cardboard boxes at the back of Helen’s storage unit, water-stained at the corners, labeled in handwriting that felt strange to look at now, mine but from a much younger version of me.“I haven’t opened these since we moved offices the first time,” Helen said, prying the lid off the top box. “I honestly forgot we still had them.”We spread the contents across a folding table Ruth had lent us, invoices and supplier contracts and receipts gone soft with age, and started sorting by date, working backward from Sorrel’s official launch toward the messy, uncertain months before it.“Here,” Helen said, an hour in, holding up a single sheet. “Ashworth Textiles. First order, dated the month before we officially opened.”I took it from her, reading the terms.“Payment terms look normal. Net thirty, standard rates.”“Keep looking. There’s more than one invoice from them.”There were four, spread across Sorrel’s first six months, each one larger than the last, and by
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