When I told Pat how I came to be at Salee, his good eye blinked and blinked. He said that my condition then was full of sadness. I told him it wasn’t sadness that I remembered about those days. It was toil and no pay—

I haven’t told you how Pat and I became acquainted yet? Is that so, Miss?

I didn’t know you were in a hurry. Are you talking to someone else this morning about Patrick Hearn?

I didn’t think so, Miss.

No one else in Cincinnati can tell you about the man I knew.

If I were you, I’d help myself to a cup of coffee, have a listen, and take some more notes. Pat always had pages of them. You haven’t been writing that much down, Miss.

Mr. Anderson tells me that you’re with the Enquirer. Now, if that paper didn’t give Pat a byline, you probably don’t have one either. Pat was always on the lookout for a story that no one else had too. He said that’s how reporters make a name for themselves. Isn’t that right, Miss?

To be forthright with you, I didn’t know that young white ladies did newspaper work.

Times have changed? I’m sure you’re right to say so, Miss.

Mr. Anderson says that I was ten and eight when Pat and I met. He says the year was 1872.

Mr. Anderson has had to figure it all out—my birth year, my age, my comings and goings, and Pat’s as well—because Mr. Anderson says that the Probate Court will want to know once we put forward my claim.

Mr. Anderson says that Pat was five tens and four when he passed. May he rest in peace.

I know his passing was two years ago, Miss. But the letter from his book publisher didn’t come to me then. It got here less than a month ago. Without it, Mr. Anderson and I would have never known that Pat had left me nothing. That was why Mr. Anderson went to your paper, Miss. We’re both glad to know that the Enquirer is taking an interest.

His full name is William I. Anderson, Miss.

Yes, you could say that we’re related. We’re all God’s children.

Everyone these days, they know their date of birth—year, month, even down to the day—and their age. Before the war, we were “young,” which meant we weren’t being put to work yet, or we were “grown,” which meant we were working. Then we were “old,” which meant we were headed to the Hereafter soon. No numbers needed.

Folks now, they know their numbers well past ten, and some, like Mr. Anderson, even know their letters. But I tell them we’re still in the same washtub. Mr. Anderson doesn’t like it when I say such things.