Chapter 3

Merlin had Yonathan roll up his pant leg, checked his left shin, then told him to walk a few steps.

Merlin said, "This is a textbook case of a bone healing out of place. It's been crooked for years, so we'll need to break it and set it straight.

"Head over to the Havenshire General Hospital for the procedure. The total expense ranges from 180 to 240 dollars. After three months of recovery, you'll be walking just like anyone else."

"Can my leg be healed after all?" Yonathan's voice suddenly tightened.

"Yes, it can be healed," Merlin replied.

I would never forget the look Yonathan gave me when he turned around.

It wasn't gratitude. It was like someone drowning who suddenly grabbed onto a rock.

He was scared and couldn't quite believe it.

After we left the clinic, Yonathan was walking ahead of me when he suddenly stopped.

"Chloe, you said you'd be the one to save up for the surgery, so tell me, how exactly are you planning to pull that off?" he asked.

I looked at his cotton jacket, patched over and over.

"I'll butcher pigs," I said.

In my last life, I spent twenty years with that cranky old man, and he made sure I learned every trick there was about slaughtering pigs.

From holding the pig down and handing over the knife to handling the whole job on my own, I could do it all with my eyes closed. I knew exactly where to cut and how to drain the blood properly.

On the third morning, I made my way to the town's meat processing plant bright and early.

Late December was when every household butchered its hogs. Extra hands were always in short supply this time of year.

The foreman, Mark Tucker, looked me up and down.

"You? Butcher pigs?" he said, sounding skeptical.

A couple of butchers inside stuck their heads out, eager to see the spectacle.

"Hey, the chubby girl is here to slaughter pigs?" one of them called out.

"Hope you don't end up bawling before the pig's even dead," another snickered.

I ignored them.

"Got a knife? Hand me a knife," I said.

I pinned the head of the 200-plus-pound live hog under my foot, lined up my blade, and drove the knife home in one clean stroke. Mark beside me hadn't even finished half his cigarette by then, and all the hog's blood had fully drained out.

From bleeding to gutting, it was done before the water in the basin even got hot.

From gutting to deboning and cutting up the meat, start to finish, it took less than half an hour.

The meat was lined up neatly on the cutting board, spotless, not a trace of blood left.

I set down the knife and wiped my hands on my apron.

The other butchers stood frozen with their mouths wide open, too stunned to keep bantering.

Mark walked over, poked at the pork, and after a moment, finally said, "You coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah. How much will you pay me?" I asked.

"Six dollars per pig. The head, feet, and organs are yours to keep," he replied.

If I butchered two pigs a day, that was twelve dollars a day. And if I sold the offal at the market, I could make about eight dollars. That meant I could bring in about twenty dollars a day.

Even a strong laborer working a full day couldn't earn nearly that much.

On my way home, I lugged a bundle of pig offal.

Yonathan was out in the yard, fixing the fence. When he caught a whiff of me, smelling like a slaughterhouse, he just froze, staring for ages.

"You actually did it?" he asked, still in disbelief.

"Yep," I replied.

"All by yourself?" he said, wide-eyed.

"Yep," I said.

He glanced at my hand, the web between my thumb and index finger rubbed red from the knife handle. His mouth opened, like he wanted to say something, but the words just wouldn't come.

That night, I cleaned the pork offal, tossed it into a pot with salt and hot peppers, and left it to simmer.

It wasn't anything special, yet Dorothy ate far more than her fill. When she whispered, "This is meat," her voice trembled.

As I washed the dishes, I realized the pork offal could not be sold in such a crude way.

Back in my previous life, when I was stuck in the Havenshire General Hospital, my roommate was a retired chef from a famous local restaurant.

Every day, he would ramble on about his stewed meat secrets. He explained how to craft a rich base broth, how to mix seasonings well, and how to manage the heat with great care.

I must've heard it hundreds of times, and back then, I thought there was no point in learning all this.

But now, it was coming in handy.

The next day, I headed to the general store and picked up aromatic spices, sweet crystalline sugar, and savory cooking sauce.

Once I got home, I locked the door and spent the whole day messing around with the recipe.

Slow-cooked meat relied entirely on a rich, seasoned cooking base for its unique flavor.

I first simmered pork bones over low heat for three hours to create a deep, flavorful broth base.

Three allspice berries, no more. I broke a cinnamon stick into thumbnail-sized pieces, placed it and a few black peppercorns into a small muslin sachet, and tied it shut. I removed all seeds from the dried hot peppers and kept only the outer flesh.

I caramelized crystal sugar in water until it turned a deep reddish-brown, then poured it into the broth to build a rich, warm hue.

The savory cooking sauce was added last to balance the overall taste.

Three hours later, the slow-cooked pork cut was arranged neatly in a ceramic tray, its surface glistening with rich oil and boasting a smooth, appetizing sheen.

The aroma drifted out of the kitchen and floated down the street.

Dorothy was the first to catch the scent.

"What's that smell? Oh my! Yonathan, come quick!" she called out.

I sliced up a small portion and let them try it first.

Dorothy took a bite of the slow-cooked pork and suddenly stopped. A faint spark flickered in her cloudy eyes for a moment.

"This is so good. Really, so good," she said.

The next day, when the local market opened, I set up a small stand with a wooden board. I marked the prices in chalk.

Seasoned pulled pork went for one dollar per pound, rich stewed pork at two dollars per pound, and savory mixed meats at one dollar per pound.

My lettering was rough and uneven, yet no one paid it any mind. They caught the warm scent in the air and flocked toward me at once.

Less than two hours later, everything was sold out.

I made twelve dollars and sixty cents clear.

When I got home and started counting the money, Yonathan sat beside me, watching quietly.

One dollar, two dollars, three dollars... twelve dollars and sixty cents.