When he returned, I offered it to her. She drank thirstily, set the wooden cup to the side and beckoned me closer.

“Daughter?” she asked. She was out of breath and harrumphed forcibly, before asking again. “Daughter—is that you?”

Her question stumped me. I was not a Second Brother and, under the law, she was not my mother. After years of study, I knew this. And yet, her face was familiar.

Summer in the nursery: the attendants let their cantaloupes swing free between feedings and they stripped us down, except for our nappies. Near the double window by our crib, I counted the suns before she came. A sweaty wedge in the morning, a hot melon at noon, an open yolk in the evening. And then, like a late blossom, our mother came. The heat had been unavoidable, even at dusk. But her laughter, as we’d performed our tricks, our fists and kicks, had blown over us like a breeze.

I blinked. “Mother,” I said. Not my mother, but ours.

She pulled me by the wrist, so her cheek rested on mine.

“I dying.” She coughed, squeezing my hand.

I wiped her chin with a cloth William handed me. “No, not dying.” I smoothed her forehead, as if she was the child. “You are going to rest soon—in a beautiful place prepared for you. No more work, no more sorrow, no more death.”

“Soltice,” she whispered. “With Obi.”

“Yes.” I was well versed in worker mythology. The Great Obi Solomon’s heroic deeds on Earth had earned him a seat by the workers’ God in the workers’ paradise; both were called Soltice. “You will stroll her streets of fur. No dirt will touch your feet. Your family will walk with you.”

“My sisters, my daughters,” her voice cracked, “my sons.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “They will all be there to welcome you home.”

We clasped hands for a long while in silence, her tears wetting my cheek. Finally, she rested back. I took a deep breath. I saw my story comforted her and I knew what she would ask next.

“How do I get there? I do not know the way.”

“You know,” I said, indulgently. I held up my quill and pad.

“You?”

I nodded. “I am a Record Keeper,” I confessed. A pride such as I’d never felt before settled in my heart. This, I thought suddenly, this is what it means to be a First Brother.

With a grunt the woman pushed herself up onto her elbows. A flame of hope lit her eyes as she determined to use the last of her strength to tell her story.

Blinking rapidly, I took ink from my bag and prepared to write.

* * *