“It’s true, and you knew about it?”

“Yes, I told him it was mine, and he bought it for me.”

“But how did you know they were selling it?” she asks.

I tell her the whole story with the other Water woman, every bit of it, and then end with, “I shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

She puts her hand over mine and squeezes. “I hate Water people; I mean, I hate that Water person. I hope something terrible happens to her. I’m glad you punched her. I would have liked to see that.”

That makes me feel better, but now I want to change the subject. “What are the people on the Home Planet saying about me?” I ask, bracing myself to be told that this is proof I’m a volunteer and not free. I think about the implications of my pay and position on the ship if I am now really my Commander’s property because he bought my grandmother’s necklace.

“They obviously don’t know that you know the Commander bought the necklace for you,” she says.

“How would they know what I know or don’t know?” I ask.

“Everyone knows how well the Commander keeps you safe. They know he doesn’t allow you to access social media or computers beyond your work.”

“So, they think he bought it for me as a surprise for good service or something?” I ask, trying to understand this new cultural element.

“No, they think he bought it for you because he’s in love with you.”

I laugh. I never expected her to say that. “He’s not.”

My friend gives me a skeptical look.

“Just this morning, he received a message from another female and one of much higher standing than I will ever be.”

“So?” my friend says.

“Between you and me,” I whisper, “I think it was a romantic message.”

My friend dismisses this. “You can’t control what other females write to him.”

“Anyway,” I say, “the point is that I’m a Water person. I’m a volunteer. I’ll never be anyone’s wife or object of romantic affection.” When I notice her sad expression, I say, “No, don’t be sad for me. It’s a much better life than I would have had on the farm; all those other volunteers starved to death as I heard it.”

“But not on your Water Planet,” she says sympathetically.

I can’t fault her there. “That future never existed for me, so I can’t mourn it. I can’t spend my life saying, ‘what if.’ Every day, I wake up and choose to do the best I can for myself.”

“You amaze me,” she says. “I think I would hate all Silvers if I were you. But you’ve learned to forgive us.”

“You didn’t trade me,” I remind her.

“I know, but you know what I mean. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to give a culture that had been so cruel to me a chance at redemption.”

I smile. “I doubt you would just lay down and die either.” My friend is a drama queen, though, so I can imagine her lying down for about five minutes on Earth saying, ‘No more. I’m just going to die.’ Then getting frustrated when no one watched her and getting on with life.