By 1968 the boy with the crooked cap was twenty-two, good enough to rent a small corner shop, and stubborn enough to believe that was all he needed.
Inside stood a bench, a pair of shears, and a secondhand sewing machine.
It was enough. He cut and stitched every cap himself, and if one wasn't right, it never left the shop.
That stubbornness became his reputation, and his reputation kept the shop full for twenty-five years.
And every cap he ever sold began in the same place: the pattern cabinet by the window, holding every design he had ever drawn.