“I know, I know. But just leave it be. Won’t always be like this.”

Lady Mae could not remember a time in her life without Arbuckle, who was only two years older than her. He’d been coming around since he was small—four, five perhaps—and she was hard-pressed to conjure up a memory that he wasn’t in. She saw him nearly every day, and the days that he did not come by seemed long and dreary. He helped her with arithmetic beyond what her mother could, and in return, he received a small payment that Lady Mae knew he used for rations. His father spent their allowance on mash, filling up bottles instead of cupboards. He was the only friend she had ever had, the only one who did not hate or fear her, did not spit and hurl when she came near. Perhaps it was because Arbuckle himself knew the scorn of others; after all, many were maimed at his father’s cannery just as much as they were at the depot. His father had on many occasions failed to check the belt line before turning it on. Hands caught and fingers sliced off, falling to the factory’s floor with a quiet thump. This angered the law-abiding workers who were often mistaken for criminals, their missing limbs and digits betraying their innocence.

“You go on and clean up in the kitchen. I’ll fetch some bandages,” Arbuckle said as he walked through the doorway and placed his hat on the small table that held an oil lamp and an empty egg basket.

“It’s fine. I mean it. I ain’t going to have you play medic.”

“Go on.”

Lady Mae did as he said and went into the kitchen. She ladled out several cups of water into a bowl, and as the sediment swirled she dipped a towel in it and brought it to her face She wiped first her cheek and then held it to her head. The rough linen stung, and she dabbed at her hair and scalp tenderly but quick.

“Here,” Arbuckle said and came up behind her holding a piece of fabric and a small piece of adhesive.

“That won’t stick,” she said. “Just leave it.”

“Sure you don’t want me to do nothing?” Arbuckle asked. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them lightly.

“It’ll just make it worse.” She pulled away from him feeling not for the first time a tumbling deep inside.

“I don’t know. Seems to me this is worse. They’d get atonements for sure.”

“Says you who goes on and on about how those atonements are bad.”

“This ain’t what I meant. Situations like this—”

“They’ll stop when it’s my turn.”

Arbuckle didn’t respond, and Lady Mae knew that would end the conversation. He didn’t like talking about when she’d take over at the depot. He thought atonements purposeless and cruel—wouldn’t say it directly to her, not as such, but all that thinking had to go somewhere. Arbuckle wasn’t wrong; after all, he’d seen his father go to the depot many times—small grievances over the use of a pasture, the stealing of another’s livestock, drinking too much and fighting in the square. Arbuckle’s father had not fingers, but ten stubs of differing lengths, and said as long as he could still open a jug of ale it was no matter to him. But his visits had not cured him of his meanness, and Arbuckle knew this well.