“But your kit was here and I—”

“You think I ain’t got tools there, too? Law says you ain’t allowed. Not yet.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“And what did that get you?”

She heard the chair creak and her mother stand. Then there were hands upon her shoulders, soft and knowing, and Lady Mae turned around. She was taller than her mother, but as her mother inspected her face, her eyes flitting from one injury to the other, she felt small. No doubt, her mother saw the scrapes from the rocky dust on Lady Mae’s forehead and cheek.

“I was cleaning the coop. One of the hens got spooked, and I fell into the—”

“You go on and tell truthfully now, Lady Mae.”

She pulled her daughter close and hugged her tight. Her mother was small and strong, her surprisingly gentle touch known throughout Settlement Five. “My girl,” she whispered. “What did they do to you?”

Arbuckle. He’d gone and went to the depot after lessons, told her mother everything, she was sure. This weren’t the first time. Wasn’t going to be the last, either. The kids were just getting worse and worse. She felt a sudden flash of anger; it wasn’t his to tell. But there Lady Mae was in the kitchen, spoon in hand, lying to her mother again. He was right—they weren’t going to let up. Truth was she was grateful that someone besides her mother cared about what happened to her, and she did not wish to begrudge him that.

“I was bringing your kit, and they were out. Started throwing things at me.”

“That all?”

Lady Mae dropped her eyes. “They pushed me. Kicked me here.” She brought her hand to her rib, the spot tender and painful.

“Anything broke?”

“Don’t think so. Hurts, though.”

Her mother brought her hands to Lady Mae, touching lightly her cheek and then her side. Then she pursed her lips and let out a slow breath through her nose. Lady Mae’s eyes fell to the floor, and her ears went hot and itchy. She was embarrassed, and doubly ashamed as such. Her mother did not chide her daughter for trying to keep it all a secret, but still the guilt remained. Her mother went back to her chair and sat back down, leaning over to untie her boots. “Did you fight back?” she asked.

Her mother had never suggested fighting—walk away, she’d said. Run if you have to. Call for help. And so at the mention of retaliation Lady Mae’s stomach turned, and her throat tightened. She wanted to tell her mother what she’d felt, how when she was in the dust something had burst and bled through her. She’d wanted to lash out at the tyrants, mark them as they’d marked her. It had been there, just at the edge of her fingertips, but then it had vanished. She looked at her mother’s bent head and hunched shoulders. Don’t know how to fight, Mama.

“They just won’t quit.”