It was a June evening that began like countless others in Montgomery, Alabama.
The air was brisk, heavy with the faint scent of fried chicken from nearby kitchens and the constant hum of a city winding down.
Rosa Parks stood at the corner of Cleveland Avenue, waiting for the bus to take her home.
She tightened her coat around her shoulders and clutched her purse in one hand, exhaustion seeping into her bones after a long day of sewing at the Montgomery Fair department store.
She'd made this journey hundreds of times before, always silent, always obedient, always playing her role in a city where the color of your skin determined the boundaries of your world.
When the bus rolled up with its familiar screech, Rosa climbed the steps, depositing her fare into the coin box with a practiced motion.
She avoided the gaze of James F. Blake, the driver, who sat like a king upon his throne, commanding the lives of everyone who entered his bus.
