Chapter 3

At the back of the alley, a middle-aged man in a felt hat was crouched down with a few burlap sacks spread out in front of him.

I crouched across from him and pointed at the smallest sack.

The man looked me over. "Hey there, kid. Who sent you?"

I held up one finger, then made an eight with my hands. I was here to buy some grits that cost eight cents a pound.

He let out a short laugh. "Grits are seven cents at the mill store. Why come to me?"

I made another motion. I got no food stamps.

His face shifted. He looked me over again, his eyes lingering on my patched jacket and my hands, purple from the cold.

Then he let out a breath, scooped a heaping bowl of grits from one of the sacks, and poured it into my burlap bag. "Take it. No charge."

I froze.

"Keep your nine cents and get yourself some salt," he said, tugging his hat down lower. "Don't come back here. This is no place for a child."

I gave him a quick nod and turned to go.

As I walked out of the alley, I heard him mutter behind me, "Same age as my little girl."

I didn't turn around, but something stung my eyes.

By the time I made it back to the shack, daylight was pouring in through the gaps in the walls.

I set the cracked pot on the fire, boiled some water, and shook in the grits a little at a time, stirring slowly to keep the lumps out until it thickened up smooth.

Then I pulled out the handful of dandelion greens I'd grabbed on the way back, chopped them fine, and scraped them into the pot.

Grandma lifted her bowl with both hands, took a sip, and stopped. "Sophie."

"Yes?"

"Is this grits?"

"Yeah."

"Where'd you get grits?"

"I traded some junk I picked up."

Grandma didn't push any further. She kept her head down and ate, one slow spoonful after another.

When she got to the bottom, she ran her finger around the bowl, scraping it clean.

I turned away and busied myself poking at the fire.

I couldn't let her see my eyes were red, not that she could see me at all.

*****

We had food in our bellies for now.

But I knew deep down that picking through trash and trading in back alleys was nothing but a short rope. I had to find something steadier, something that would keep us fed for the long haul.

From my previous life, I had learned one thing cold: in times like these, the real currency wasn't food or fabric. It was knowing how to do something with my hands.

A carpenter never went hungry, no matter where he ended up.

A man who could weave baskets could trade two of them for a sack of beans.

And a seamstress? She could get by anywhere.

But all those trades meant apprenticing under somebody or having tools I didn't have and couldn't afford.

The one thing I could do without anybody teaching me was dig up wild herbs and roots.

In my previous life, I'd spent decades roaming these hills.

I knew exactly which slope grew goldenseal, which creek bank had the best wild ginger, and where the black cohosh grew thickest in the woods. I could find them with my eyes shut.

The clinic in town would buy those herbs, and I didn't need food stamps or cash up front.

Once I had that piece figured out, I started heading up the mountain to gather with a real plan.

I started with the letters—A through Z—sounding them out until Grandma could repeat every one. Then I moved on to the short words at the top of each page.

I traced each word on the dirt floor with my finger, spelling it out loud, and Grandma spelled it right back at me, letter by letter.

Then she tilted her head a little. "Sophie, the word mountain, are the letters kind of look like peaks all bunched up, don't they? The M goes up and down, up and down."

I stared at her. "Grandma, did you know how to read before?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I knew a handful of words. Your grandpa taught me, back when he was young."

She said it flat and even, like she was talking about the weather.

But I could feel the weight underneath it.

Twenty years ago, Grandma was a young woman. Somebody used to sit beside her, patient and close, teaching her letters one by one.

Then that same man brought another woman through the front door and wrecked her whole life with his own two hands. Threw her into a pit she never climbed out of.

I didn't push her any further. I turned to the next page and kept going.

Outside, the wind cut through the gaps in the plank walls.

But inside the shack, there was the warmth of the fire, the glow of the lamp, and the sound of two voices, one old, one young, calling out words together, rising and falling like a song.

It was the most peaceful night I had ever known, across both my lifetimes.

*****

The days rolled on, one after another.

In the daylight, I climbed the hills to dig roots and herbs. When I'd gathered enough, I'd haul them down to town to sell.

Nelson Webster, who ran the clinic, was a man in his fifties. The first time I walked in with a basket full of plants, his eyes went wide. "Well now, young lady. You are telling me you know what these are?"

I laid each herb out on his counter, named them one by one, and handed him a slip of paper.

On it, I'd scratched the names and uses of each plant in messy charcoal writing. My letters were ugly, but I didn't get a single one wrong.