That’s what I’m thinking about when Sarah turns up with a blueberry pie. She’s got the green scarf tied around her head. When I see her, I stop mid-swing of the hammer.

“Afternoon,” I say, getting up and coming over, wiping my hands on my rear because my apron is too dirty to get me clean. “I’m glad to see you,” I tell her. I want to tell her more, but I don’t know how to say it.

“Hello, Henry. I baked you a pie.” She hefts it higher like an offering.

I pluck off my apron and lean in to smell. I’m close to her now, so I put my hand on her hip because it feels wrong not to touch her.

“It’s blueberry,” she says. I can feel her breath on my skin and the heat of her closeness. “I picked them this morning.”

“Smells delicious,” I tell her, but I don’t want pie. I duck around the dish and kiss her cheek. “Thank you,” I say. I take it from her hands and set it down on the workbench. “I’ll get us a knife to cut it up. You’ll eat it with me, won’t you?”

I go to my wagon searching for my knife. When I find it, I see it’s not been cleaned in a while, so I reach for my water pouch and a rag to wash it. The rag hangs on its peg but the water pouch is gone. I know I hung it here earlier, just before Annie called me out to the Big House to get Mister Johnson’s newest assignment, and I wonder if she might’ve taken it. With no water, I wipe the knife down with the dry rag as best I can. When I get back to Sarah, she’s looking over my work from the morning. The neck rings and the wrist chains.

“I had to clean the knife,” I say

She jumps when I speak and takes a step away from me. “You made these?”

The tone in her voice makes me want to say “no,” which would be a lie. Instead, I point to the neck rings and say, “Those ones I only fixed.”

She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at them.

“Mister Johnson hired me to do a job,” I say, carefully. I can see the way she’s looking at them, at what they must mean to her. I hate that I have them here. I hate that I made them, but what can I do?

“You know what they are?”

“I do.” I take a step toward her and she backs up, bumping into the anvil.

“Sarah, I don’t agree with the use of them.”

“But you made them,” she says.

“They pay me to make things.”

She shakes her head with a look in her eye like I’m not who she thought I was.

“This is how I live,” I say. “I have to feed and clothe myself. I take the work I can get and how I feel about what I make doesn’t matter. What matters is getting paid.”