But this water is different. The Pacific back home is wild, restless, always moving. Lake Michigan looks contained, brooding, like it’s keeping its thoughts to itself. It makes the city feel grounded somehow, anchored.
The engines change pitch, a low mechanical hum that vibrates through my bones. Around me, people stir—Americans, I assume—folding trays, adjusting jackets, already impatient to be back on the ground. I stay still, watching streets and bridges come into focus, the city revealing its bones. Rivers cutting clean lines through the concrete. Neighbourhoods packed tight, pressed together as if warmth matters here.
I think of Melbourne, of how it hides its beauty in laneways and cafés, of how nothing there reaches quite this high. Australian cities sprawl too, but differently—more sky, more breathing room. This feels intentional. Built by people who wanted to go up because they had no interest in going anywhere else.
The wheels hit the runway with a solid jolt. Not graceful, but succinct. The skyline slips from view, replaced by concrete and lights and movement, but my chest tightens anyway.
This is my first time in America. First time north of the equator. First time feeling this small in the best possible way.
As the plane slows, I sit back and let the reality settle in.
Los Angeles may have welcomed me politely, but Chicago—Chicago feels like it’s watching me back, waiting to see what I’ll do next—challenging me to make my mark.
When I disembark, I slowly make my way to the luggage carousel. I’m exhausted and desperate to get to the hotel, butthere is no sense in hurrying. It will take them some time to unload the luggage. Instead, I study the people as I follow the signs.
Back home in Adelaide, we have our share of tourists, but there is no denying that Chicago attracts people from all over the world. Los Angeles offered a similar insight, but I didn’t have time to take it all in. I’d been too busy rushing through the massive terminal to reach my connecting flight. Now that I’m in Chicago and will be staying here for several days, I can’t wait to experience everything it has to offer.
Once I grab my two suitcases, I wheel them outside to search for a taxi. Luckily, I don’t have to wait long. My body is exhausted even though my mind is very active. I let my body relax into the back of the taxi while I take in the sights.
“First time to Chicago?” the driver asks, making eye contact in the mirror.
I nod. “My first time in the United States.”
“Australian?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“Welcome to Chicago. You here for Fashion Week?”
I glance at him in surprise. “I am. How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You look like a model.”
I chuckle. “I’m not a model. But thank you. I’m a designer.”
“Really? Good for you! I wish you luck this week.”
“Thank you,” I grin.
We lapse into silence, and that’s when I hear the rumble of motorcycles gaining on us. I glance out the window and see seven bikes pull even with us in the next lane. The bike in front is ridden by a large man with a dark beard. Behind him, two bikers ride side-by-side. I study the man closest to me and gasp. I know him. Whip. I consider waving to get his attention, but they speed up and keep moving forward. I study the kuttes on the riders asthey pass. A snarling dog is at the center. The top rocker says Demon Dawgs, while the bottom proudly displays Chicago.
“The Demon Dawgs?” I say out loud. I don’t mean it as a question, but my driver does.
“Yeah. They’re not too bad. They aren’t like some clubs. Don’t mess with them, though.”
“No, I wasn’t planning on messing with them.” I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. However, I’m no longer aware of the view. In fact, my mind is no longer in Chicago. It’s nine thousand miles away in Adelaide, in the clothing store my father owned.
Twelve years ago, I worked at my father’s store, where I fell in love with clothes. One day, a gang of bikers came into the store to harass my father. I had seen them riding around town for the past few months and knew they called themselves the Adelaide Bushrangers. They used to stay away from the town, but lately they’d been driving up and down the streets and stopping at the various shops. It looked like today was our unlucky day.
My father greeted them, but I could see the fear coursing through him. It was nothing compared to the bone-chilling fear I felt when two of the bikers closed in around me. The look in their eyes froze me in place. My father rushed to my side and pulled me close. I felt a little safer, but not safe.
“What can I help you with?” my father asks.
“Well, mate, I’m glad you asked,” the leader says. The patch on his kutte reads 'President'. “We’re starting a new business that we know you’ll want to invest in. We’ll protect you and yours, but it will cost you. $300 a week.”
“I can’t afford that,” my dad protests.
“Well, I suggest you find a way to come up with the money. I’d hate for anything to happen to you or your store,” he says, his eyes flicking to me. “Or to your daughter.”
