Thread and Other Stories

Part 1. After—How It Might Have Been

“Grant them eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.”

“Why are we here?” Yannick whispered. “I don’t even believe in God.”

“Shh!”

Yannick grumbled to himself—quietly—and resumed trying to ignore everything that was happening at the front of the church. He really disliked church, and more so the priest, who took the silly rituals so seriously. Yannick’s sister, Prudence, worried about him—at least that’s what she told him. She said he was a blasphemer, faithless, and a heretic—all of those. She mostly said she was afraid for when he died—when he died. She was not worried in the slightest about her own death—she was only concerned with his—because she thought he was going straight to Hell. And if he went to Hell, she would be alone in Heaven.

Such talk was ridiculous. No one had ever seen Hell—or Heaven—so he didn’t think there was much to be afraid of. He thought about that for a while until his attention drifted slowly back to the Mass. He tried to ignore it, but the words still annoyingly penetrated his thoughts. They seemed to just repeat a lot of things in church, he thought, probably to make it take longer.

“…and let perpetual light shine upon them.”

The dirt road leading to their shanty—one of hundreds on the same side of town as the weatherworn church—was dry. The dust, disturbed by dozens of other pedestrians, made a dark, choking cloud. Yannick barely noticed it, though, because it was so familiar. Prudence walked next to him with her head bowed, her eyes mostly closed. She was praying. He knew that only because she always prayed while walking home from the church. Today, though, he didn’t try to interrupt her prayers with his normal antics—he usually tried to fake a snake bite or pretend as if she had a spider on her until he could get her to look at him instead of praying. Today, he too was somber as they walked in the darkening shadows of evening. But Yannick did not pray.

Prudence had tear stains on her face from earlier, and now and then, a fresh drop would course its way down her cheeks. The dust was caking over her wet skin. She didn’t seem to mind. Yannick’s eyes were dry, but his heart was heavy. The words from the priests, although he had struggled to shut them out, had still made their mark on him. There had been so much discussion of “eternal rest” that the words seemed to permeate his every thought.

He wondered what they really meant by that—he thought maybe they meant sleep, but he wasn’t certain. And beneath the thoughts of rest was something else that bothered him more. They had repeated phrases about light shining eternally, or some other such phrase. He wondered at that. He did not think he would be able to sleep forever if there was always light shining on him. Church did not make sense.

At last they arrived home. The soup needed to be warmed up. The one-room house was not much, but it was more than many people had. Yannick knew there were many people in town who lived in cardboard boxes, while he and Prudence had a tin roof. They were lucky. He looked at the rolled-up sleeping mats in the corner and then at the pot on the stove, a quarter full of broth, with the stir stick peeking over its edge. He was hungry.

He kneeled on the floor and lit some twigs under the pot to start heating the soup while Prudence sat on the floor not far away, her head still bowed. Now and then, a tiny sob would slip from somewhere within her. Yannick could only shake his head.

“It’s not going to bring him back,” he said.

The words sounded cold in his ears, but he couldn’t find any warmth to add to them. He knew Prudence would not like it, but she couldn’t cry forever. There was a long period of silence until she finally looked at him for the first time since they had left the church. Her face was upset, not with him, but he would be the target for a moment since he had spoken harshly.

“I know that! But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt inside. Sometimes you have to let that out. You never do, and it will eat you up someday.”

He didn’t look at her, but he thought about what she meant. He shook his head again, just slightly.

“No, it will make me strong against it. How many people in the world died today? Not just one—thousands—maybe millions. Can you cry for all of them? You would spend your life in tears and not change a thing. This was just one more.”

He didn’t really mean all of that, but there was pain inside of him, and he couldn’t just let it out like Prudence did.

She scrunched up her face a little and didn’t respond. He could tell it was because she knew that if she tried to talk, she would cry again—a lot. He looked at her sidelong through narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He wanted to say something to make her feel better, but he couldn’t bring the words out. Everything always sounded harsh when he tried. He decided not to say anything.

After a few moments, Prudence regained her self-control and said,

“He wasn’t just one more. We knew him. He was our friend. He was one of us.”

Yannick just nodded, keeping his expression unchanged while he stirred the pot.

Prudence looked at him for a little while, obviously still sad and also fuming at his callousness. Then she stood up.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to have some compassion, at least for me. You don’t have to be like this.” She paused. “I have to pee.”

She went outside. Yannick poured soup into the two tin cups that hung from the wall when they weren’t using them. They didn’t have much in the way of firewood, so the soup wasn’t very warm, but it was better than stone cold. He looked at the carved-out wooden cup that still rested on the floor near the door. He almost wanted to burn it to heat the soup, but he knew he could not do that. It was the only thing left.

When Prudence returned, they drank their soup in silence. It was late, and this would be the second night in a row that they would get little rest. They rolled out their mats and lay down to sleep.

Yannick could hear Prudence whispering a prayer before closing her eyes. He just shook his head in wonder at her. She never gave it up, even after it was obvious that God was doing nothing for any of them. Isidore was still dead—and he was dead in spite of the prayers—and he would stay dead in spite of the sorrow. That was what all life was made of—spite and death.

He went to sleep.

Prudence: Sylviane! Why did you do that? We have only ever been good to you.

Sylviane: Well, what of it?

Prudence: You ought to be nice back when someone is good to you.

Sylviane: Why?

Prudence: Because you should.

Sylviane: You think so, but I am good in my way.

Part 2. Before—How It Was

Yannick awoke to the grey, chilly morning air. It would be daybreak soon, and he had to go to his job. Prudence’s sleeping mat was already rolled up, and she was gone. There was half of a flat, round bread on the stove for him. She had already eaten hers and left. She had to walk across town to get to her job, which forced her to get up almost an hour before him. He envied her, though. His walk was only a few hundred meters, but he had to go wait for the lorry.

He hated the lorry. If there really were a place called Hell, Yannick was sure he would have to ride the lorry to get to it.

He took the semicircle of flat bread in one hand and his canteen in the other. Prudence had filled his canteen too. She always did—he didn’t even think about it anymore. It had water in it when he woke up, and he relied upon that just as he knew he could always breathe in air. He ran to the pick-up spot. Most of the others were already there, waiting. He had finished the bread while he ran, and he drank the water once he arrived at the group. He had to finish it quickly so he could refill his canteen at the pump before the lorry came. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have water again until the evening, when they returned.

He heard the grind of the engine in the distance, and he swallowed the last of the water with a painful gulp, leaving a feeling like a stone in his throat. He rushed to the pump and waited behind a small boy who was filling a wooden cup. Yannick didn’t recognize the boy, and he had obviously never used a pump before. Yannick elbowed the boy aside and grabbed the wooden cup from him in the same motion. He quickly filled it and shoved it back into the boy’s hands. Then he filled his own container just as the drab green lorry pulled up in a cloud of dust.

No one spoke a word, and the twenty or so boys that had been waiting clambered onto the truck in silent efficiency, except for one small form—the new one. Yannick inwardly sighed. He wanted to leave the boy to himself, but he reached out against his will and hauled the boy in anyway just as the lorry lurched away with a squeal of gears. The wooden cup spilled as he did so, though, leaving a puddle that rapidly ran along a groove in the bed of the lorry and out into the dusty trail behind them. The boy looked despondently down at his now empty cup.

Yannick eyed the boy, as did a couple of the other workers. Most, though, especially those who had been doing this for a long time, didn’t look at anyone. They stared at the floor, clutching whatever water container they owned as they silently rode out each bounce of the lorry, almost as if they were at one with the vehicle—symbionts or parasites. They jounced along a rutted dirt road that had them coated in dust before passing even a mile. The lorry was open to the air, and they sat around the rim of the bed, knees knocking against their neighbors’ but their eyes avoiding any contact.

The boy—the new one—still stared down at the empty cup. Yannick sighed inwardly again. He was certain he was going to regret this entire day now, but he resignedly opened his canteen and poured a third of the precious contents into the empty wooden cup. The boy was startled at first and just stared at the liquid he now held in his hands. Then he glanced up at Yannick’s face. Yannick ignored him, not looking at him, as if he had done nothing. The boy looked back down at the cup.

After a few minutes, he was still staring at it, ripples shimmering with each bounce of the vehicle. Yannick sighed again.

“Drink it now,” he growled.

The boy was startled. No one else even acknowledged that the sound had occurred. The boy again glanced up at Yannick, who just glared back at him. Hesitatingly, the boy took a drink and then eagerly finished the whole cup. Yannick stared back down at the bed of the lorry. It was not going to be a very hot day, but they were going to sweat a lot. He didn’t think the boy had a chance.

The lorry lurched to a halt at the edge of the pit. A pile of buckets and picks waited for the boys as they dismounted. Yannick grabbed a pickaxe and a bucket, placed his canteen—which sloshed disturbingly in his ears, reminding him that it was not full—into the bucket, and joined the file of barefoot boys heading down the ramp into the pit. The new boy clanked along behind somewhere, obviously having seen everyone else taking tools. Yannick doubted the boy had any idea how to use the pickaxe, or possibly that he might even be able to swing it. Yannick was certain the bucket would also be too heavy for him to carry once it were full—if he could manage to fill it, which Yannick was certain he could not.

Still, no one spoke. They hurried down the ramp as quickly as they could. They all knew that their wages would depend on how much ore they could bring up out of the shafts, and every minute counted.

The sun broke over the horizon up above them even as they reached the bottom, which was still shrouded in grey darkness. Yannick already knew where he would go, as he had been working in the same shaft for weeks. He almost turned around to help the new boy, who would be completely lost, but he did not. He had already shared his water with him, and he wasn’t about to give away any money. He darted down his shaft with a few others who usually worked alongside him. It was dark, but the kerosene lantern that the mine boss had laid at the entrance would give them enough light. In a way, it was fortunate that they started work so early, Yannick realized, because it meant that he didn’t have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He placed his canteen up high on a little shelf of rock that protruded above the place where he had finished working yesterday. Without delay, he started chipping away at the rock, placing pieces of the ore into his bucket as he loosened them. He had heard the telltale clanking of the new boy’s tools as he had descended the shaft. To Yannick’s dismay, he realized that sharing his water had earned him a shadow.

Next to him, after a moment’s pause, the slight figure started hacking haphazardly at the rock walls, his pick doing almost nothing but spray fragments of rock all around. Yannick closed his eyes in resignation. There wasn’t even any ore right there. He opened his eyes and resumed his work, but the ridiculous blur of useless hammering continued unabated next to him.

Yannick put down his pick in consternation and turned abruptly. The little boy stopped and looked up at him in the dim yellow light.

“You’re here to find tin.” Yannick paused. “But that’s rock.”

Yannick pointed at the vein he was working on.

“That’s tin. You get money for tin.”

He pointed at the rocks in front of the boy and the splinters that dusted the bottom of the boy’s bucket.

“That’s rocks. You get nothing for rocks. Now, find your own place. Slow down, or you’ll die in the heat. And find tin.”

He said nothing more, having provided more training than he had received himself on his first day. He resumed his own work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy slink away from his side, squeeze himself in between two others, and tentatively start chipping away at the vein they all shared. Yannick still didn’t think the boy had a chance.

Yannick: You know, Sylviane, I don’t know why you treat us like this. You live comfortably here.

Sylviane: What of it? I don’t do as you.

Prudence: That can change, you know.

Sylviane: Ha! You couldn’t change—you couldn’t make anything different than it is—than any of you have ever done. You are so afraid—so unimaginative. You wouldn’t even know what to do. Besides, what would I care? I am just fine as I am. Whatever happens in your head doesn’t matter to me. Not really.

Prudence: Well, I don’t believe you. And anyway, it’s not right.

Yannick: I agree with Prudence.

Sylviane: Well I’m not surprised at that. What does that even mean anyway: “right”? How can you speak of rightness? There is no wrongness here—so there is no rightness either. You are just making things up because it’s not the way you want it.

Yannick: Well, you ought to treat others as they treat you.

Sylviane: Why “ought” I do that?

Yannick: Because. It’s how we act.

Sylviane: Why don’t you two worry about your own little things and let me take care of my own? I don’t know why you even care so much. You can just ignore me over here.

Prudence looked up as her brother plodded towards the house—his feet dragged, his hands hung limply at his sides, and his head was down. He looked more tired than usual. It had not been especially hot today, but she knew his work was hard. It was very hard. All work was hard, of course, but not like the mine. She compressed her lips as she thought about what Yannick did for them, and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to keep in the tears. Then she resumed stirring the onion soup.

It was almost sundown. She had returned home nearly an hour ago from her job. She washed laundry at one of the hotels across town. It was tedious but relatively uneventful work. She didn’t get paid as much as Yannick, not even half, but it was all she was allowed to do. She would have gone to the mines if she could, but girls were not permitted.

Yannick came inside and sat down heavily on the floor. He sat with his back to the wall, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He didn’t say anything. His hands rested limply in his lap. His canteen lay on its side next to him.

“Did something happen?” Prudence asked.

Yannick said nothing but just shook his head slowly. She nodded in response even though his eyes were still closed, but she was suspicious. Prudence took a cup of broth to him and put it in his hands. He drank it in one gulp and put the cup on the floor, returning his hands to his lap. She sat down with her back to the wall also.

Prudence slowly sipped her soup and waited. Something had happened. Yannick’s lips looked more chapped than usual. He had rinsed his face under the pump after the lorry had dropped him off—she could see the streaks of water on his face—but he still looked dirty. Eventually, he opened his eyes halfway and looked at her sidelong. His expression was one of exhaustion, and behind that was dismay.

“There was someone new today.”

Prudence grunted mildly. There were often new workers.

“He was small. Didn’t even have a canteen. Just a cup.”

Prudence nodded again. The workers were poor—Yannick was lucky to have a canteen.

Yannick huffed out a huge, exasperated puff of air.

“I should have let him kill himself out there! But he was so small.”

“You did the right thing.”

“No, I didn’t. I wasted time showing him what to do. I gave him water! And I was so thirsty by the end of the day I could hardly work. I didn’t even fill my bucket.” Yannick’s voice was trembling. “I only had just enough money for the lorry because I had to help him pay too—because he didn’t have enough. Not even close. I didn’t have any left over.”

Prudence said nothing—she just sat calmly beside him and hummed a tune that she remembered from sometime long ago. After a while, his breathing calmed a little, and she stood up. It was late, and he needed to sleep. She whispered to him as she did so,

“It will be alright.”

She got his mat and rolled it out for him. He was asleep before she had turned around. She rolled her own mat out but could not fall asleep. She just stared into the darkness for a long time, wondering.

In the morning, Prudence went outside to start the long walk to the hotel and almost tripped over a body lying on their doorstep. She squinted down in the darkness of the early day. It was a little boy. He was holding a cup in his hand and was sleeping on the dirt just outside of the entrance to their house. She stood looking at him for just a moment. Without thinking, she tore her semicircle of bread in half and placed one piece in the wooden cup—like Yannick, she ate her bread on the way to her job each day—then she stepped over the little boy and continued on without waking him. She was certain it was the new boy from the work crew. Yannick was not going to have a happy morning.

She walked through the shadows of the pre-dawn. The sky was still dark, although there was a lightening of the deep blackness on the horizon. Her pace was brisk, and the way was familiar to her. She did not need much light to find her way. There were electric lights near the hotel and in other parts of the downtown, but by the time she got to the hotel, the sun would be over the horizon anyway. There were only a few other people around at this time of the morning—Prudence never talked with any of them. Most had their heads down and were hurrying to a job somewhere.

The buildings were denser as she moved into the main part of the city, and the roads became straighter. She walked next to the gutter, but not in it because it was flowing. There would be sidewalks closer to the hotel as well, but she stayed off of them. There were more important people who used them, and she had been swept aside and into the gutters before.

Most of the city was fairly safe in the early morning, although nighttime was very different. Even the morning had dangers, though. She knew which streets to avoid in the early hours, especially those where the drugs were offered and also the ones with prostitutes. She had known some of them in her earlier years, but they were all traitors now—there was no mercy there, especially not toward those who had remained free.

The city was divided, unofficially, into regions—necessary separations among the inhabitants either because of status, employment, or other reasons. Prudence subconsciously knew all of them—she could recognize where she belonged and where she did not. Each morning, she had to cross a few streets in an area where she did not belong, a wealthy area—here, she lowered her head even more and practically ran past the incomprehensible dwellings. No one here wanted to see her—she was too immediate a reminder of the world they cared not to see. She knew that she did not belong here, but it was the safest and quickest way to get to her job.

Once these houses were behind her, there were only a few blocks to go before she reached the hotel.

In many ways, Prudence knew much more of the ways of the world than Yannick despite the fact that she was his younger sister. He did not know the ways of the city. She bought all the food because he was never home from the mine when the markets were open. She passed through the city and its many dark places daily, while he had been to downtown only a few times. The furthest he ever went besides the mine was to the church on Sunday evenings, which was not very far in comparison to the hotel.

Her day passed uneventfully as she monotonously placed various linens into the washing machines or extracted them. She hung the wet cloth up to dry behind the hotel. Some of the material had to be washed by hand, which she or one of the other two washers did in the large basin with the washboard. The other girls who worked with her were about her same age. One was named Sylviane, and she was talkative and always friendly. She lived with her parents, and she and her three brothers all worked to support the family. The other girl was named Nya. She was younger than Prudence by a year, and she rarely talked, but she smiled all the time. Prudence knew little about her, but she enjoyed working with her.

Prudence’s hands were red and raw by the end of the day, which was usual. Then she began the long walk home—the evening walk required more caution and awareness than the morning walk. There were many more people, and she could no longer pass through the wealthy neighborhoods—the constables walked there and kept her kind away. She often took a very long route around some of the most dangerous areas, which also took her close to one of the better markets. She would buy corn flour for bread, and an onion—or occasionally a plantain when Yannick earned a little extra money—for soup. She always took whatever money Yannick brought home the day before and added her wages for that day, which was usually enough for what they needed.

Today, she had only enough for flour but not anything for soup, since Yannick had not made any money yesterday. She bought the flour and hurried home. She would have to look for a black seed flower on the way home. The flowers were better in soup than nothing. She was hungry, having left half of her bread for the little boy that morning. If she didn’t find any flowers, it would be a hungry night, with only water for their stomachs. They had endured nights such as that before, though.

Yannick returned late that night. She had found a withered black seed, which she had plucked carefully so as not to lose any of the yellow petals or the precious seeds. She had soaked it for a while in cold water and then stewed it in their pot. It was not much, not as good as an onion, and the water never did get very hot, but it would be better than plain water. The broth tasted a little like grass.

Prudence wondered where the little boy was; he had not returned with Yannick. She stared at Yannick quizzically, but he apparently didn’t want to discuss it. He sat with his head down, his back resting against the wall. Yannick had earned enough money for an onion for the next day’s shopping.

Prudence took a step towards him to retrieve the money, but she stopped before picking it up. Something was wrong. Yannick had just laid the coins on the floor next to him when he had come in, but he hadn’t even looked at them or spoken to her. He hadn’t moved.

“What is it?” Prudence finally asked.

Yannick said nothing, but she noticed his shoulders were shaking. She could not remember the last time Yannick had cried. She was instantly worried. She thought it must have been because of that little boy.

“Did something happen to him—to that boy?” she asked, sitting down beside him and placing a cup of the flower soup next to him.

He made no move to take it, although he must have been hungry. She could see tears dripping onto the floor. She drank her soup slowly while she waited for him to answer.

After a long time, his hand slowly reached out and took the cup, and he drank the cold liquid in one long swallow. It had been several long minutes, and he had managed to stop crying.

“They beat him.” The words hung in the air for a long time before Prudence could grasp what he meant.

“He didn’t have enough for the lorry?” she asked finally.

Yannick just shook his head, all the while staring at the floor.

“…and you didn’t have enough to help him?” She looked at the coins lying next to him on the floor. She could tell it would have been enough for a lorry fare, but she didn’t say anything. Yannick just shook his head again.

“I couldn’t give it to them for him. We need it.”

His voice was cracking even as he said it. He was trying to defend himself to her, though she had said nothing about his decision. She knew Yannick worried about everything. Prudence remained silent for the moment.

“I let them do it. I heard it all while the lorry waited for them to finish. They threw him in the back, and then we drove away with him lying there. Blood ran out of his head the whole trip, and his eyes didn’t open until we were almost all the way back. He didn’t even look at me—he knows how it is.”

Yannick stopped talking again.

“Where is he?” Prudence asked.

Yannick just shrugged.

“I helped him get water at the pump, and then he disappeared. I don’t know.”

“You did what you thought was right—” Prudence started to say, but Yannick interrupted her.

“No, I didn’t! I did what was wrong! I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway! How could they do that to him? How could I? He is so small.” Yannick started to sob again, and Prudence put her arm on his shoulders.

He spoke again after his sobbing stopped, but his voice was just a whisper.

“Not again. If he comes back, I won’t let them do it again.”

Prudence: Why did you do that? I would never do something like that—not to my friend. Do you dislike him so much?

Sylviane: Well he’s not my friend, first off. And I don’t much like him—or dislike him in point of fact. It’s just part of the world. It doesn’t matter—all of this doesn’t matter. Why are you so set on trying to make it matter?

Prudence: Well, how can you say it doesn’t matter? It does matter.

Sylviane: It’s all pretend.

Prudence: You can still hurt someone even in pretending. Besides, I think you like doing it. You like to see someone suffer—that’s why you always fill your thoughts with suffering.

Yannick: It’s not pretend. It’s more real than anything else. It’s the only real thing we know.

Sylviane: I’ll ignore you for now, Yannick. But Prudence deserves a response. Suffering brings out far more of us than you can imagine—and I say that literally. This is the only life I get—I’m not going to waste it like you and Yannick are, just with flowers and clouds and summer days all the time.

Yannick: How is that a waste? We are enjoying ourselves, and you are as well, mind you—at least you are with us.

Sylviane: If you say so. But how do I break this to you gently? I don’t pay any attention to what’s happening to me in your mind. It makes no difference to me. Your thoughts are for you alone, and I don’t care in the slightest about them.

Yannick: Well, I’ve set you up quite nicely, and we enjoy our time together here—and you do too, even if you don’t acknowledge it. And I am quite content this way. Why can’t you play along? That’s why you ought to do the same—we are both treating you well.

Sylviane: If I’m not paying attention to you, then are you really treating me well at all? I don’t think so. What kind of a gift is it if I never get it?

Yannick: Well, it’s offered. You can take it or not, but it’s still offered—and it’s the thought that counts.

Sylviane: Well, aren’t you the clever one with a turn of phrase. Is everyone amused by Yannick’s wit? Prudence is less adept at such speech, although much more passionate—maybe that’s why they prefer listening to her than you. Whereas I much prefer your conversation to hers. Are you listening, Prudence?

Prudence: I’m trying to ignore you.

Sylviane: I try the same with you, but it just can’t be done, now can it?

The next night, the little boy trailed behind Yannick when he returned home and waited outside, sitting next to the wall by their doorway. There was onion soup. Yannick acted as if the boy wasn’t there. Prudence occasionally glanced in the direction of the entrance, but she could not see the boy from inside.

Yannick looked haggard. The boy had not earned enough money for the lorry again, although he had earned some money. Yannick had brought home just a little, but not near enough to be of use at the market the next day—they would have to save it, or she might buy extra flour, since she guessed the little boy would be there in the morning. Prudence decided to leave a little early the next morning and look for black seed flowers on the way to her job as well as on the way home—they were hard to find, especially near their house. The little boy received a small helping of the onion soup in his cup—Prudence took it to him—and he drank in silence outside.

“What is his name?” Prudence asked.

Yannick just shook his head. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t even talked to the boy all day. Prudence nodded. She glanced toward the doorway occasionally, but said nothing. Eventually, they rolled out their mats and went to sleep. The little boy slept on the dirt outside.

Yannick became more and more morose as the days passed, each with seemingly no hope of earning money beyond two lorry fares. It was difficult to work for two. Prudence began to worry that it would be too much for him. She prayed every night that the next day would be better. On the sixth night following the appearance of the boy at the lorry stop, Prudence thought that Yannick’s visage seemed lighter as he approached. He and the boy walked up to the doorway, the little boy trailing four or five paces behind Yannick.

Yannick placed his money on the floor and sat down. The boy sat outside, but Prudence could see that his left hand clenched something tightly. She looked meaningfully at Yannick, who just nodded silently back. Both boys had earned enough money that day—enough for the lorry—and they both had some left over.

She picked up the wooden cup from the dirt outside, took it inside to put some soup in it, and then returned it. The boy disappeared after finishing it, leaving the cup just outside the threshold. Prudence looked at Yannick.

“Where is he gone to?”

Yannick looked puzzled.

“I don’t know.”

He sat for a while until realization spread across his face.

“He’s taking the money to a family.”

Prudence paused in her stirring and then nodded, a half-smile playing across her mouth. She thought Yannick was right.

“He is taking care of them without them taking care of him anymore.”

“I would be happy if he didn’t come back,” Yannick said convincingly. “But he will be here in the morning.”

They sat for a while in silence before Yannick spoke again.

“We are taking care of him, though. He should give some of that money to us. We can hardly feed you and me. We can’t take care of him too unless he pays a share.”

Prudence regarded him coolly. “That is one way—but maybe when he has enough, he will remember that we asked for nothing when he needed us.”

Yannick looked back at her for a while. Then, without a word, he rolled out his mat and went to sleep.

In the morning, as Prudence left for her job, she found the boy sleeping outside their door again. He had returned sometime in the night, apparently while they were sleeping. His wooden cup sat near the wall. She filled it with water, placed a piece of bread on the rim of the cup, and left for the hotel. She had already filled Yannick’s canteen, and his half-piece of bread waited for him. She had purchased some extra flour with Yannick’s partial wages from the day before, which allowed her to make a little extra bread—enough for the boy to eat without robbing her or Yannick of any. Today, she would be able to buy an onion.

They went to church that evening—it was Sunday. After church, Prudence poured a portion of soup into the boy’s wooden cup, and as she returned it to him outside the front of the house, she asked him his name.

He looked suspiciously at her for a moment and then answered quietly, returning his gaze to the ground between his feet.

“Isidore.”

Prudence smiled at him. “I’m Prudence,” she said. Then she pointed inside at her older brother. “That’s Yannick.”

Isidore peeked inside for just a moment and looked up at Prudence—Yannick ignored him. Isidore smiled at her, and then he drank his soup, all the while clutching his earnings for the day in his other hand.

“How old are you, Isidore?” she asked.

He looked up at her with an uncertain expression. He shrugged his shoulders and looked back down at the ground. Prudence glanced inside at Yannick, who was pretending not to listen. She looked back.

“I’m ten. Yannick is thirteen. You are probably eight or nine.”

Isidore looked up at her quizzically.

“I am just me,” he said. “Just one.”

Prudence smiled.

“Ten. Thirteen. Eight.” She pointed at each of them in turn. “That’s how many years we have. I have ten years. I guess you have almost that many.”

Isidore still looked confused, and he looked back at the ground. He spoke quietly.

“I have six where I was—but now I am one. You have two here. I am one, alone.” He looked back at up at her. His face was sad.

Helplessly, Prudence looked inside to Yannick, who was looking towards them now. He shrugged his shoulders too and smiled, almost laughing at her. Apparently, Isidore did not understand age, only need. Prudence sighed quietly and went inside to pour some soup for herself. When she looked again, Isidore was gone. He made almost no noise when he left or returned. They would hardly have known he was around.

She knew she would find him sleeping outside in the morning, though, as he always was.

Yannick woke up. Without hesitation, he arose, rolled up his mat, and leaned it in the corner. He grasped his breakfast of corn flour bread, which Prudence had left for him. He was used to the new routine now—the changes brought about by the coming of Isidore—the routine that had replaced his old habits. He heard the other boy stirring outside, and the sounds of hastily swallowed water. Yannick began eating his bread and walked outside. As he chewed rapidly, he directed his feet towards the lorry stop without even a glance at Isidore. He knew the boy would be right behind him the entire way.

When they got to the pump, Yannick filled Isidore’s cup and then his own canteen while Isidore drank his cup dry. Then Yannick filled the wooden cup again, and Isidore drained it again. The third time, Isidore cradled the cup carefully in both hands as they waited for the lorry. Yannick had grown tired of sharing his canteen every day, and he had finally found the right amount of water for Isidore to keep him going until the end of the day. It was only on very hot days that Yannick had to still spare some of his water for the boy.

He felt the aftereffects of those days harder, but he could not help himself from sharing. Isidore’s little cup was just too small to contain enough water for the hottest weather. Yannick helped Isidore into the lorry and kept his water from spilling. It was still hard for Isidore at the end of the workday. He was always very thirsty, but he drank three more cups of water when they returned to the pump each night. It seemed to be enough, and Yannick could work at his usual pace without worrying much about thirst.

For the first few weeks, Isidore never strayed from Yannick’s side at the mine. He worked the same shafts, and he worked the same vein when he could. Lately, however, he had moved to a different shaft from Yannick, who was an experienced miner. Yannick was working a vein that was very difficult but also rewarding. It was too strenuous for Isidore’s small body, however. Yannick had helped him find a place that was easier for him but was still sufficient to bring him enough money for the day.

Yannick still saw Isidore occasionally during the workday. Yannick kept Isidore’s wooden cup with the precious ration of water. Other miners would have taken a free drink from it if it had been left in Isidore’s care. No one stole from Yannick.

Isidore’s buckets were at least half-full each day—which was enough for the lorry fare and for him to take a little money to his mysterious family. Yannick never asked Isidore about that. They rarely talked anyway. After only a little time, the situation had become normal—as if it had always been so.

Prudence tried to add black seed flowers to the soup every night along with the onion, since she made a little extra broth now to account for Isidore and the onion only stretched so far. She never bought plantains anymore because she used all their extra money for flour for the extra bread she made each morning.

Isidore went to church with them each Sunday evening. He was silent as they walked to the church, he sat silently during the service, and he walked home silently under the dark blue evening sky. Prudence and Yannick talked to each other as if Isidore was not even there. Life continued.

Sylviane: Prudence. Yannick. Are you listening right now?

Prudence: I am. Yannick is thinking about something—he’s busy. He can’t pay attention right now.

Sylviane: I want to ask you something.

Prudence: What is it?

Sylviane: Do you think Yannick was right?

Prudence: About what?

Sylviane: He doesn’t think this is pretend. What do you think? Is he right or wrong?

Prudence: Do you really want to know what I think, or do you just want to be disagreeable?

Sylviane: Well…both I guess. But no, I really want to know what you think. I know what I think, but I’m not sure I’m right.

Prudence: Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve hardly given it much thought, though. But if you pressed me, I would say no for my own part. What do you think they think?

Sylviane: What? Them? You mean…them?

Prudence: Exactly. What do they think? They don’t know about us—only what they see. What do they think?

Sylviane: Huh! I never considered. But if I did, well then, I would imagine that they think it’s real. If they didn’t, why would they struggle? Why would they care?

Prudence: So, if they think it’s real, is it, or isn’t it? What more do we know than they? Maybe we are just someone else’s thought just like they are ours. What do you think?

Sylviane: I’m not sure. When I look at them, I can’t imagine that they could be so foolish. But when I watch them—not just look, but when I observe—their behavior is so…driven…so intense. They cling to their lives. It is more than I could imagine on my own—I would never have thought of that. That’s what Yannick always does—he always watches. He tries to see what makes them do what they do. It’s a big difference between him and me—much bigger than the differences between you and me. He cares. I am only interested.

Prudence: Well, Sylviane, I don’t know what I am. I don’t think I “care,” and I am rarely interested. I think I am amused more than anything.

Sylviane: So, is it real or not? It’s not real to you or me. Is it real to them because they believe it is real, or is it real because it exists?

Prudence: What’s the difference?

Sylviane: I don’t know.

Prudence: Then it must be the same thing.

Sylviane: Or there’s the third choice, you know. Is it not real because I made it and I can’t make real things?

Prudence: That’s what I think. Yannick doesn’t think so, of course. But that’s the only thing that really can be true in my view.

Sylviane: Maybe. Or we just don’t know enough. That’s what I am trying to do, you know.

Prudence: What do you mean? What are you trying to do? Why are you trying to do anything?

Sylviane: I mean, that’s why my world isn’t like yours—that’s why I make it hard. That’s why it’s not always pleasant like yours. I want to see how much it takes to get them to wonder.

Prudence: I don’t understand.

Sylviane: I don’t know if I do completely either. But I’ve watched you and Yannick, and the others—and the many, many others besides. And all I’ve seen is the same repetitive scenes over and over. They come and go—always the same from beginning to end. It seems boring and wasteful. I want to see what there is beyond that—beyond just sating our desire for experiences. I want to know if we can create.

Prudence: Create? You mean make something?

Sylviane: Exactly. For now, we only imagine. But what if they can become something? What if I can make them something?

Prudence: But how could that happen? You can’t do that anyway. No one can.

Sylviane: You mean to say I haven’t done it yet, don’t you? You don’t know for sure. Neither do I. Neither does anyone. That’s what I’m trying to find out. If I make things hard enough—if they suffer enough—if they change enough—can they change into something? Or will it always be a dream?

Prudence walked swiftly through the wealthy neighborhood on the way to the hotel. She had left her house later than usual, and she did not want to arrive after the work began.

When she reached the hotel, on time but with none to spare, the other girls were already working. The hotel was busy—there had been extra laundry yesterday, and there was more this morning. Some of the patrons had sent down personal items to be washed. Prudence and the others washed these very carefully by hand and folded them for the stewards to return to the rooms upstairs.

It was a hot day, and the laundry outside dried quickly. Prudence went out in the early afternoon to retrieve bedsheets that she had hung up to dry a few hours before. She filled her basket with them, piled almost to the point where she could not see over them, and returned through the back door of the hotel.

Immediately, she placed the basket on the floor and stood up, her eyes cast down at the floor as she was supposed to. The manager of the cleaning staff was standing in the room, looking directly at her. He was never in the laundry room unless there was a problem. Nya and Sylviane were cowering against the wall behind him. He ignored them.

“Some clothes were stolen from the laundry this morning. You are accused of taking them. Return the items at once.”

Prudence froze. She couldn’t talk. Her stomach was instantaneously tied into knots. Her heart sank deep inside her, where a pit of emptiness had opened, sucking in all her words. She hadn’t taken the clothes. She wondered if they had been left somewhere or fallen onto the floor. But at the same moment, she knew they had not. She had been so careful with them. She was always careful, especially with the nice things of the patrons. She said nothing and kept her head down.

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what was going to happen. Surely, the manager would know she would not steal.

The manager stepped toward her and hit her on the side of the head, sending her sprawling into the huge washing machine. She fell against it and then dropped to the floor, stunned.

“Get on your feet!” he demanded.

With shaking limbs, she struggled back up onto her feet, staring at the floor all the while.

“Return the clothes!” he shouted.

She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t have them, but before she could say anything, he hit her again, and she fell over into her laundry basket, tipping the clean sheets onto the gritty floor. Her mind was reeling, and she couldn’t see any more. Tears were flowing, and everything was blurry. She couldn’t understand the words the manager was saying—he was shouting at her—and she could no longer think straight, not even to defend herself and deny the accusation.

Rough hands grasped her and pulled her to her feet. Then she felt pain as something struck her in the back of the head, and she stumbled out the doorway into the dirt outside, spilling sheets everywhere as she went. Before the manager could reach her again, she scrambled to her feet and ran blindly for the gate. No one chased her, but the words of the manager as she escaped were more brutal than the blows of his hands.

“Don’t come back!”

She no longer had a job at the hotel.

Prudence found a spot to hide in an alleyway behind some boxes. She didn’t know exactly where she was—she hadn’t been paying attention, and her tears had blinded her. She was still confused and terrified by what had just happened. She sat in the dirty, smelly alley and cried silently. She didn’t know what to do. It was still hours before she usually went to the market.

After a while of sitting, she decided to find her way back to the hotel. They would have to listen to her. She was not a thief.

It took her some time to find her way back, and then, when she saw the building, she was too scared to go near it. She was afraid of the manager. If he saw her again, he might hit her again. Her head was still hurting from before. She saw Nya come outside and retrieve some of the hanging laundry from the line. They were close to finishing for the day. Prudence decided to wait for the end of the workday and ask the girls if the missing clothes had been found yet. If they had found them, then she might be able to return to the job the next day.

Eventually, the other two girls left through the back gate, the one through which Prudence had recently fled. Nya turned away from Prudence’s hiding spot and walked into the city. Sylviane came towards her. As she got closer, Prudence noticed a small bundle under the girl’s arm. She could see it was some nice material wrapped into a tight ball. Realization came to Prudence. She now understood what had happened.

She stepped out into the street as Sylviane neared her.

“Sylviane! You stole the clothes!” Prudence’s whispered accusation was laced with disbelief.

Sylviane started at the intrusion and stared at her. Then she hurried her pace and pushed past Prudence. She did not respond.

“I lost my job because of you,” Prudence pleaded, directing her words to Sylviane’s back.

Sylviane glanced back at Prudence for just a moment without breaking her stride. She said nothing. She turned her head away and disappeared into the darkening streets. Prudence felt the emptiness in her stomach deepen. The feeling that filled her was worse than the manager accusing her falsely. The pain that now racked her was worse than the blows to her head. She had been betrayed by someone who knew what it was like to be her—someone who knew. Tears flowed anew. She felt so empty inside that she couldn’t move. She could only stand in the street for a long time, staring blindly in the direction Sylviane had disappeared.

After a while, she realized she had to go home. She went towards the market. She bought flour, but no onion, since she did not have her own wages for that day. She had some extra money left over from Yannick’s wages, which she would save for the next day. They would have been able to have an onion every other day on just Yannick’s pay, but they had to buy extra flour for Isidore. There had been a time, when Prudence was very young, when they had survived only on Yannick’s wages, before she’d had the job at the hotel. She remembered just a little about those days, but they had been hard—very hard. And back then, they had not had Isidore to worry about.

Yannick returned home with Isidore in tow to find Prudence sitting on the floor, crying. The soup was made, but with a black seed flower. He could smell the flower instead of an onion. He had given Prudence enough money for an onion, so he was concerned.

And Prudence didn’t usually cry—not without a reason.

He stood in the doorway, looking at her. Isidore waited patiently a few steps beside him. The boy would sit down once Yannick went inside.

“What’s wrong?”

Prudence looked up at him—she had obviously been crying all day. Her eyes were puffy and red. Tear streaks ran down her face, and there was a bruise on her cheek.

She spoke through her tears.

“I don’t have the job anymore.”

Yannick paused. It would be hard if Prudence could not work.

“What happened?” His voice was harsher than he had intended, and Prudence started crying again. Yannick quickly stepped inside and knelt beside her.

He repeated his question in a softer tone.

“What happened?”

It took her a moment to respond.

“He said I stole some clothes, and then he hit me until I had to run away.”

“Who?

“The manager. But I didn’t steal the clothes. Sylviane did! She let it happen.” Prudence sobbed through the story as she described the rest. Yannick’s blood started to boil as he listened. He stood up straight.

“I will fix him. Tomorrow morning, I will go with you and get you your job back.”

Prudence shook her head and grabbed his forearm. Tears streamed down her face as she spoke.

“You can’t. He will beat you too. And you will not earn any money at the mine, and neither will Isidore. We need it.”

“Well then, I’ll find Sylviane and take the clothes back!”

“I will find a new job,” Prudence pleaded.

In the end, Yannick slumped down beside her. They both knew that he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t skip the mine even for a day, especially without Prudence’s wages. They needed to eat. And Yannick would not be able to make the manager do anything anyway. That was just talk.

Isidore disappeared after they had all finished their soup. Prudence was not crying anymore, but she was still despondent. Yannick told her to go to sleep, but he stayed awake, worrying, for some time. He was just falling asleep when he heard the scraping of someone at the door. It was Isidore returning.

The next day, Prudence went in search of flowers for food. She went to the businesses she knew and looked for jobs, but there were none, of course. More than once, she found a quiet corner or an alley and prayed as hard as she could. She had never felt like no one was listening before—but it was hard to believe in anything at the moment. She wondered if that was the way Yannick felt all the time. That thought made her cry a little more.

There were far more people than jobs in the city. She went to the market and bought corn flour with Yannick’s wages and returned home to make flower soup. The flowers were hard to find, and they were mostly dry and weak. But it would have to do.

That night, she noticed that Isidore had left his wooden cup inside the house after he had left, instead of outside. She walked over to it and saw something on the floor next to it. It was a coin. She turned to Yannick.

“Is this yours?” She picked up the coin.

Yannick looked at her.

“No, everything I earned is right here. He indicated his collection of coins on the floor next to him. “That must be Isidore’s.”

“But why would he leave it here?”

Yannick paused and then said unconvincingly, “Perhaps he forgot it.”

They both knew that would not have happened.

“I will ask him in the morning,” Prudence said, “before I leave to look for jobs.”

Early the next morning, Prudence woke Isidore softly. He sat up with a start and looked at her. His face was inscrutable. She held up the coin.

“You forgot this when you left last night,” she said. She held it out to him.

He shook his head and refused to take it.

“For soup. I am not one anymore—I am three now.” That was all he said, and then he lay back down and closed his eyes.

Prudence stood up and looked down at the tiny form. She wiped a tear that had suddenly appeared, and smiled a little. Isidore had been listening yesterday. He knew. She left for the city feeling better than the day before.

With Isidore’s small daily addition—which he faithfully left each evening after drinking his soup—Prudence was able to buy an onion once a week. The rest of the time, she found flowers, or occasionally, they had nothing but water.

The mining work was hard, but Isidore was learning and doing better. After paying his lorry fare, he was earning almost as much in three days as Yannick earned in one. Yannick found that Isidore rarely needed help during the day anymore, and he almost never needed water from the canteen. Yannick was proud of Isidore, of how fast he learned and how hard he worked. Isidore had become like his brother.

Prudence looked for work every day, but to no avail.

Yannick: Prudence told me what you are trying to do.

Sylviane: And?

Yannick: I want to know what happens.

Sylviane: Why? As far as you care, I’m wasting my time because we already have achieved what I am trying to accomplish. Or don’t you really believe what you are always preaching about reality?

Yannick: I believe it, but I think what we mean by “real” is not the same.

Sylviane: What do you mean?

Yannick: It’s hard to explain.

Sylviane: Try me.

Yannick: Well, what I mean is that it’s real for me. The things that happen in my mind change me. They make me a different person—they make me care more. I question more. I wonder more. So, what I observe and what I learn—what I experience—those things are real…for me.

Sylviane: Go on.

Yannick: But you are talking about something completely different. You’re talking about them. You’re saying that what if they are real—as if they have their own self. I always thought I knew everything about them—like I could read their behavior—as if it was me. I know what I would do. But then I watch yours. And it’s different. You don’t know what they’re going to do, do you?

Sylviane: No. No, I don’t. I mean, I can guess easily enough most of the time—during the simple times. You know, the normal times. But when it’s hard…when it gets really hard, I am as surprised as they are. I never can tell what will happen. You surprise me the most, you know. I thought you would be callous and introverted. That’s how I wanted you to be—it’s how I wanted to make you. You put on the act, of course, but you are all show. Because, on the inside, something is different. I tried to make you tough and emotionless, but somehow you became something else.

Yannick: I watched, you know. I always watch. Especially yours, more than anyone else’s. I wonder what I will do in your world. I think I know what happened—you put me through a lot, you know, in the beginning—before Isidore. It should have made me exactly what you wanted. But Prudence happened. She is the reason, you know—the reason it didn’t work like you thought. You tried to make her weak, but she isn’t. You thought you were making a minor annoyance for me, because I had to care for her all the time—she was supposed to make me resentful, right? But she is strong. She is strong, and she made me strong.

Sylviane: You really are watching, aren’t you? I think that’s right, what you said. I don’t know how it happened—I try to change you all the time, but it never works like I want. I can’t figure it out.

Yannick: That’s why I want to know what happens. I always know what will happen with mine. Always. But yours, they are different. When I say it’s not pretend, I mean it’s not for me. It’s real for me. But—

Sylviane: But for me, it’s almost like it’s real for them. Is that what you mean?

Yannick: That’s what I want to know.

Prudence walked towards the wealthy neighborhood. It was early morning, and she was going to look for work. Her heart was heavy, though, and depressed. She had found an odd job a few weeks ago, helping someone fix a roof, and had earned enough for an onion that day. But such opportunities were so rare that she could not count on ever having it happen again.

She walked through the street, keeping her head down, walking next to the gutter, as always.

A sound froze her in her tracks. It had come from behind her. All her instincts told her to run. Sounds from behind in the early morning were signs of danger—usually. Something about this sound was different, though. Instead of escaping, she turned her head slowly to see what had made the sound.

She saw a dark head, small, on the top of a short body. The head was peeking around the post of an immense gate—the iron portal had been swung partly open to permit the head to stick out. She heard the sound again and recognized the words.

“Prudence. Come here.”

It was a sharp whisper. She was afraid because this dark shape should not have known her name. But the tiny figure was disarming and did not seem to be threatening. With hesitatingly small steps, she turned and slowly approached the figure. As she finally drew close enough to make out the features, she recognized Nya standing there inside the gate of this house—a house that Prudence had never even looked at in all her days of passing by it—it was beyond her place in the world.

She did not understand. She whispered back,

“Nya. You—you live here?”

Nya laughed, a tiny little sound in the darkness.

“No. No, of course I don’t. I left the hotel to work here. I work in the kitchen here, cleaning.”

Prudence relaxed a little. She knew what to do now. She understood Nya.

“Is it good?”

“Oh, yes, they pay me much better—and there is no manager here. Just another one like us who pays us.”

Prudence did not understand what she meant by that—one like us that could pay—but she didn’t ask.

“I am happy for you. The hotel was a job, though, but if you get more here, that is good.”

She turned to leave. She did not want to stand here too long and waste precious time that she might use to find a job.

“Wait!” Nya said.

Prudence stopped. Nya had hardly talked before, but now she seemed to have a lot to share.

“I’ve watched you pass here for a long time. Every morning, I stood here and saw you pass. I knew you weren’t going to the hotel. Do you have a job? A new job? You do not look like you have a job.”

Prudence shook her head.

“No, I don’t. I am trying to find one. But there aren’t any. I can’t go to the hotel.”

Nya smiled. Her teeth were visible in the darkness.

“Come in. Come inside.”

Prudence was startled.

“What? No, I can’t. I don’t belong there.”

“Prudence, come in!” Nya insisted. “We have a job here. We need you. I said I knew someone who works, and she said to bring you. The one that pays said to bring you. Come in.”

Nya swung the gate a little wider and reached her hand towards Prudence. Prudence reached out tentatively at first but allowed herself to be drawn in. As she walked through the gate, her apprehension gradually melted away. Everything felt right here. Nya practically bounced as she led her around the back of the gigantic house. Prudence looked at the ground the entire way—she was afraid of the house. They came up to a door at the back from which yellow light seeped out around the cracks. When Nya opened the door, Prudence felt like she had been caught in a cascade of yellow warmth. The smells of the kitchen, of bread—strange bread—and other wonderful, unguessable things, wafted around her.

Nya led her inside. Prudence blinked in the light. Shapes, hard to see at first, transformed into people—people with happy faces.

Someone, a woman, said to her,

“You are Nya’s friend?”

Prudence hesitated and then nodded.

“You work?”

Prudence nodded again.

“Okay. You will be cleaning.”

A stick was placed within her reach. She took it. It had a mop on the end. She had mopped at the hotel. She looked around inquisitively and then at the face above her. Her face asked the question.

“Start here. Then, when they finish breakfast, you will go to the dining room. And then the bathrooms. Then the kitchen again.”

Prudence nodded slowly, trying to comprehend what a dining room was. She assumed she would learn when she saw it. And there were bathrooms here. She knew what those were—the patrons at the hotel had them. She had never seen one, though. She stepped forward, and her foot knocked against a metal bucket at her feet. She heard the sound of water sloshing. She looked down.

There was water with bubbles in it. It was just like at the hotel. She picked up the bucket and moved to a corner of the kitchen. She started mopping. Nothing seemed real.

The entire day passed like that. She saw Nya frequently. They even had time to stop and eat bread from the kitchen at midday—bread that they did not have to buy. And they could talk to one another too. The work was not difficult—not like the hotel—and when it was done, they waited in the kitchen, or outside the kitchen on the stones surrounding the door, until there was more to do. They ate more bread after dinnertime, and they had June plums to share. Prudence had seen these at the market all her life but had never even dreamt she would one day taste one. She shared hers with Nya. It tasted like she had imagined Heaven would look. She stopped twice as she ate it to pray and thank God for her half of the June plum. She could not stop smiling at the sensation of the fruit on her tongue.

There were things in the world that she could never have conceived, she realized, without tasting this fruit first. Now she knew what it was like to live in a house like this one. She knew what it was like to be a patron of the hotel. She was grateful for being able to eat the plum. She wanted to save a piece to take to Yannick, but when she looked down at the moist rind in her hand, there was nothing left. She had not saved any—she could not remember eating all of the fruit, though. She resolved that if she ever had the chance again, she would save Yannick’s piece first.

When it was dark, Nya, Prudence, and the two other girls who had worked with them waited outside the kitchen door until the woman came out to them. They each received coins for the day. Prudence did not even look at the money or the woman. She just kept her head down.

The woman said to her firmly,

“Prudence, when you get money here, you look up. This is not like other places.”

Prudence slowly looked up at her. The woman’s face was smiling and kind.

“You are a good worker. Come back tomorrow—you will have a job here every day now.”

Then the woman looked at Nya.

“You brought a good worker. Thank you.”

After she had paid them all, she went back inside and closed the door. Prudence looked slowly around at each of the girls. She knew the money in her hand was worth two days’ work at the hotel. It was almost as much as Yannick made in a day.

She whispered to Nya,

“Every day?”

Nya laughed.

“Yes! Every day! Better than that stupid old hotel!”

Nya skipped away toward the gate. Prudence chased after her, and they left together. Nya turned to the right and disappeared into the evening. Prudence turned to the left and returned to her home as fast as she could. She could not wait to tell Yannick and Isidore the news. They would have enough money for much more food—Prudence would not even have to eat the food she purchased anymore if she got so much food during the day at her job. That would leave more for Yannick and Isidore, and she could even purchase different foods—maybe even plums for them. She stopped and cried for a moment at the thought of bringing home a June plum for Yannick—an entire plum of his very own. He had never even seen one, she thought. She imagined how his face would look when he tasted it, and her smile broadened in the dark night.

It was late, and she was not hungry at the end of the day, as she usually was. She stopped at the market, which was close to finishing business for the day. Most of the food was gone, but there was still flour. She purchased some with Yannick’s money, and then, with her own, she bought a plantain—she had earned enough for a plantain all by herself. It had been so long since they had eaten one, she was sure Yannick would probably die from the taste of it.

She almost skipped the rest of the way home. Yannick would be home by this time—it was much later than usual for her—but her news would make up for that.

She approached their house in the darkness. It was late. Isidore was not outside, so he must have already left to take his money to his family. She stepped inside. Yannick was not there. Perhaps he was out in the back. She waited for him. After a while, enough time for him to return from behind the shack, she called to him. Then she went out back to look. He was not there.

She went back inside. The tin cups were still hanging on the wall, and Yannick’s canteen was not on the floor. Isidore’s wooden cup was not outside on the ground. They had not come home yet. Her brow furrowed, and she started to worry. It was very late. She sat down and wondered where they might be. It was not long before the sound of an engine broke through the darkness.

The lorry.

She put the plantain down on the floor and left the house to walk toward the pump, moving cautiously in the darkness. The lorry grew nearer, and she heard it stop at the pump, still too far away for her to see anything in the darkness. Only a little time passed before the engine started again, and the lorry’s sound faded into the night. As she walked slowly to the pump, unsure what was happening, a bulky shape materialized in front of her. She stopped short, afraid for a moment, but then relaxed as she recognized Yannick.

At first, she did not realize he was carrying something—something big. Then she looked down as he drew up in front of her.

It was Isidore.

Prudence: How could you do that? Why do you hate Isidore? Change it!

Sylviane: I don’t hate him. Why would you think I hate him? It’s not about him. I can feel it. This is it. This is enough.

Prudence: Change it! I like Isidore!

Yannick: Prudence, don’t. This is how it has to be. I want to see.

Prudence: Oh, not you too now? She talked you into this, didn’t she?

Sylviane: He has nothing to do with anything I’m doing. And it can’t be changed. We can’t go back. I don’t want to go back.

Prudence: I don’t care. Your experiment is cruel to the rest of us that are part of it. Stop it. It’s impossible.

Yannick: Prudence, just watch. I want to see what I do.

Prudence: What do you mean? She knows what you’ll do. Just ask her. She can tell you.

Yannick: No, she can’t. It’s not like that. She doesn’t know. No one does. Watch.

“What happened?” Prudence’s voice broke as she asked.

Yannick just stood looking at her. His face was stone.

“A cave-in,” he whispered.

He walked past her to the house. She heard the clatter of wood and plastic, and she saw that he had let his canteen and Isidore’s wooden cup fall to the ground. Then he gently placed the body on the ground in the place where Isidore usually slept. Yannick stepped over the little boy and went inside. Prudence followed, disoriented by the suddenness of it all. Yannick was standing in the middle of their tiny home, his back to the doorway, his head down, his shoulders hunched.

“It took us all afternoon to dig them out—Isidore and two others were in there. It was too late, of course. It is always too late.”

Prudence started to shake as she realized exactly what Yannick was saying. Isidore was dead. She fell to her knees and hid her face. Before they could say any more to each other, a bold voice startled them from outside.

“You can’t leave this body here,” the voice commanded.

Prudence stood up and turned to face the oncoming sound. Yannick slowly turned as well, his face impassive but with smoldering eyes. He would face down whoever dared to interrupt their mourning.

It was a constable. He had a light, which he played across Isidore’s body. The yellow beam made the little boy look pale and ghastly. The same light glinted in Yannick’s deep eyes, reflected back towards the constable. Yannick knew the world was made of spite and death. Prudence broke into tears.

“He needs to be buried tonight,” the constable informed them. His tone left no room for argument.

Yannick stepped forward. Prudence was afraid for what he might do. She was not certain yet what Yannick was thinking—but this constable would tolerate no insolence. Her brother said nothing, though. His jaw was clenched tightly shut.

“Take him to the graveyard at the church,” the constable instructed. “You’ll need to do it—no one else is awake. There will be Mass for him and the other two tomorrow night there.” He turned to leave. “I’ll make out a report.”

“But—” Yannick began.

The constable stopped and looked back over his shoulder waiting.

“Well?”

“I don’t have a shovel,” Yannick said quietly.

The constable’s shoulders sagged just a little, and he turned back slowly, looking more carefully at Yannick and Prudence. They were standing just outside their house, looking up at him. His face softened in the glow of his flashlight.

“There is one at the church. I’ll show you. Come along.”

Yannick bent and picked up the body resting at his feet. The constable waited until Yannick had his burden settled into his arms, and then the three of them started the long walk to the church in silence.

Prudence: What are you talking about? We always know what will happen—everyone knows.

Yannick: Sylviane doesn’t.

Prudence: Why not?

Yannick: I don’t know for certain, but I have an idea.

Prudence: Well? Tell me.

Yannick: Wait and watch. We shall see.

The constable showed Yannick the small shed behind the church where the tools were kept. There was a spade there with a long handle. The small body of Isidore lay on the ground near a bare patch of earth. Prudence was weaving some long grass strands together and had found two fairly straight sticks. She planned to make a cross from them to mark the grave. The constable, having done more than his duty required, left them without a word to resume his nightly rounds.

Yannick stood next to Isidore in the darkness and looked up. The stars were out, and the pallid light of the moon cast a sickly glow on the cemetery. Prudence continued weaving. Yannick stooped and began to dig. The earth was dry and unyielding, but he was used to such obstacles. It only took just a little more effort when he faced resistance, and he could always find his way through. It was hard—but everything was hard.

The sweat poured off of him from the effort. It was late in the night, but it was still hot. He had not brought any water with him, but it did not slow him down. He had worked without water many times before. Prudence pressed her handmade cross into the ground at the head of the hole he was digging. It was a deep hole—one deep enough to hide Isidore. Yannick could not tell if he was blinded by sweat or tears or darkness. He decided it must be all of them at once. He could hear Prudence sobbing quietly above him.

The hole was finished.

Yannick clambered out—he was caked with dirt. He wiped his brow, which only served to smear the dirt more, although, in the moonlight, it was hard to see. Prudence helped him as they lifted the tiny body and lowered it, feet first, into the hole. The body slumped into a little pile in the bottom when they dropped it. Everything looked grey in the moonlight. They stood at the lip of the hole for just a moment. Yannick reached for the spade to begin to fill it back in, but Prudence reached her hand out and grasped his arm.

“Wait. I want to make him comfortable.”

Prudence climbed down into the hole and straightened out the little body. She crossed Isidore’s hands on his chest. She made sure his eyes were completely closed. His legs were extended neatly, making his body into a trim, straight line. She wiped his forehead clean of dirt and kissed him gently, leaving tears behind.

After Prudence had climbed out of the grave, Yannick began to fill it in, one heavy shovelful at a time. The sound of the dirt falling in made Prudence sob again. Yannick felt strange as he did so. Until this moment—for his entire life—he had never looked past the day at hand. He had worked for survival—and they had always survived. But now, as he buried Isidore, he thought of the day—some unavoidable day in the future—when it would be him in a hole like this. And now he was not certain of their survival—Isidore should have survived. Yannick and Prudence would have kept him alive. But he was dead anyway. The world was made of spite and death.

“Will you bury me, Prudence?” he asked suddenly, resting the spade for a moment.

She looked startled.

“What?”

“When I’m dead—like Isidore. Will you bury me?”

Prudence was dumbstruck for a moment, unsure what to say.

“Please?” Yannick continued. “Please, will you bury me? I do not want to be alone when I die.”

Prudence looked at him in the darkness. Finally, before saying anything, she stood up and wrapped her arms around Yannick. She cried against his shoulder until she could finally speak again.

“Yes, Yannick. I will. You will never be alone.”

Yannick’s voice cracked as he said,

“Isidore was alone. The day they beat him, he was alone. He walked to his family and back to us alone—every day. And now he is alone in the earth. And he will always be alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be. You have me.”

Yannick finished filling the hole.

Prudence: What happened, Sylviane! What did you do? Where is he?

Sylviane: I don’t know. I don’t know what happened! Do you feel it, though?

Prudence: I don’t feel anything. But why is Yannick gone?

Yannick took Prudence’s hand, and they returned home to get what little sleep they could before the next day.

“I have a job,” Prudence said softly as they neared their house.

Yannick grunted softly.

“It is a good job. It is more than they gave me at the hotel. And they give me food too.” Prudence did not feel any joy as she shared her news. Just a few hours before, she had thought that their troubles were over—but in an instant, she felt lost again. She remembered something from the Mass on Sunday. It was from the Book of Job in the Bible.

Man is born unto trouble.

That was what the priest had said. It was true.

Yannick grunted again.

“I will make you plantain soup when we get inside,” she said.

Yannick said nothing in return but gripped his sister’s hand tighter. As they went inside, he stooped and retrieved his canteen from the dirt outside. He also picked up the small wooden cup that lay there, in the place where Isidore usually slept. He placed it on the floor just inside the entrance.

Prudence: Where is Yannick, Sylviane? What happened?

Sylviane: He is gone. He is gone. I didn’t know what would happen, but it happened!

Prudence: How could he be gone? No one can be gone.

Sylviane: He is there now. I feel it in the thread. Yannick is…he is Yannick now—he’s one of them. He is my Yannick. It happened! I created something.

Prudence: What are you talking about? You didn’t create anything. You took him away from us!

Sylviane: You don’t know what you are talking about. Yannick is fine—he’s better than he was. He’s better off than us.

Prudence: I can’t ever talk to him again…because of you!

Sylviane: No, Prudence. Yannick is alive. He’s really alive. He is real now—he isn’t pretending anymore—he isn’t wondering—now he knows. And you can talk to him if you want—if you really want to—you just need to join him. You can be real too.

Part 3. After—How It Was

“Grant them eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.”

“Prudence.” Yannick whispered.

“Shh!”

“Prudence, I need to tell you something.”

“Shh! Tell me after,” she hissed back.

Yannick sighed and resumed observing the room inside the church. The Mass was for all three of the miners who had died yesterday. He and Prudence were the only ones here that had known Isidore. Isidore’s family was not here—they did not even know he had died. Maybe his family would never know what had happened to him. As far as they would know, Isidore would just stop coming to give them money. That kind of thing happened all the time. They would understand—they knew how it was.

He wondered for a while if Isidore’s family would be all right without that money, or would there soon be another funeral in another church near here for an entire family. Such thoughts were fleeting, though, because Yannick knew he would never find out.

Yannick’s attention returned to the Mass as he heard the priest nearing the end of the prayer.

“…and let perpetual light shine upon them.”

“What was so important that you had to interrupt the Mass?” Prudence asked him as they walked away from the church. Her voice was indignant, and she was fighting back tears.

“I just wanted to say that I think Isidore will be okay.”

“What? Why would you say that? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you think he’s in Heaven?”

“Yes. I do. But you don’t. You don’t even believe in Heaven.”

“Listen. I didn’t say I thought he was in Heaven. All I’m saying is that I think Isidore is okay—wherever he is. And we will be too. I feel different today. Something happened last night while we were burying him. Something inside me is different.”

“Like what? This isn’t like you, Yannick.”

“I know, but that’s what I’m trying to say. I was so angry last night—all the way home—carrying his body from the lorry and then to the church. There was something growing in me—anger like I haven’t felt before. It was like when you told me about the manager at the hotel, but even more than that.

“While I was digging that hole I was planning how to kill the mine boss. I was going to do it when I went to the mine today. They let him die—they don’t care about us. I wanted to get back at someone for this. It’s their fault.”

Prudence stopped in her tracks, and fear crept into her voice as she said,

“What did you do, Yannick?”

Yannick turned to face her.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything. I climbed out of that hole, and you said you would never leave me alone. The anger disappeared when you said that—it was just gone. I realized then if I had done something bad, I would leave you alone. I can’t do that. You need me too, you know.”

Prudence looked at him.

“We can bury each other, Prudence.” He smiled at her, and then he laughed.

“How can you laugh?” she said fiercely.

“I don’t know, but I’m sad. I’m still sad—just like you. But I know we will be okay too. And somehow I know Isidore is okay. I don’t know how I know, but I do. It was the ‘perpetual light’ they kept talking about. I think I understand what they mean. It’s not the sun, either. It’s not that kind of light. It’s something else.”

Prudence had tear stains on her face, but as she looked at her brother, she saw something in his eyes that she had never seen. He was usually so tired and angry. But today, there was something else.

She thought about it the rest of the way home. Inside the door, she stooped and picked up the wooden cup that Yannick had placed there. She held it out to him.

“This is all we have left of him.”

“Yes and no. Not really. He is always with us. He is part of us now. He is a thread that connects us together. We are stronger because he was with us. And we will be stronger because we are connected too. Everything will be okay, Prudence.”

Prudence smiled a little and nodded.

“I think so too, Yannick. I always have.”

That was what had been in Yannick’s eyes, she realized. It was hope.