At five o’clock, in the takeaway shop in the main street of town, Miki changed her apron ready for the Saturday night rush. This afternoon between customers, she’d swept and mopped the floors, wiped the benches, scraped the grill, fished the burnt bits of batter from the fryer, restocked the fridges and shelves, and topped up the salads. Now there was nothing to do except wait. She leaned against the counter and looked out through the window, watching the world go by.

Her brother Kurt was in the rooms at the back of the shop, where the two of them lived. He was working on the tax and accounts. The tax had been due at the end of last month, but he was slow when it came to paperwork. Miki had offered to do it—she was good at numbers, thanks to all those hours muddling over maths in the kitchen with her mother. But Kurt said it was his job to look after her, and that was the way he planned to keep it. Men’s work and women’s work separated, just like on the farm. Miki had to use secret ways of keeping in touch with the finances. When they worked together in the shop, she added income in her head while Kurt took payments and counted the cash.

Miki’s life had been jobs since she was small. On the farm, she and her mother had shared the domestics. Then Mother’s arthritis had worsened, and she’d become heavy and slow, always tired, with sore joints that made kneeling for prayer difficult. Despite constant pain, Mother had still taught Miki’s lessons during the week, still enjoyed untangling convoluted maths problems. Miki had spliced her chores between lessons: cooking, cleaning, milking, washing, tending the vegie garden, setting the fire, feeding the chickens, raking up leaves. She was used to working hard.

Now, though, she was nearly eighteen, and the shop was too small for her. She yearned for more involvement and freedom, but Kurt had constructed a scaffolding of rules all around her. She had to minimise interactions with customers. Avoid eye contact. Keep her head down and keep working. Kurt made sure she always had things to do, so the only time she could stop to take a breath was when he was out of the room. He was her guardian, older by a decade, and he was in charge.

Mostly Miki didn’t mind the shop—she’d learned to accept it. She’d found it difficult at first, so much more confined than the farm, with less air and less light, and often her chest felt constricted.