Sadie Morris wiped the sweat from her brow with a dishtowel and leaned back over the sink, stuffing the towel back into the strings of her apron. Bone-weary and tired beyond tired, she propped her hip against the counter and struggled to lift the canning pot above the sink, positioning it over the metal colander without scalding herself.

Arms straining, she hoisted the pot upward, tipping out steaming water and boiled peaches.

Today was canning day, tomorrow would be jam, everything scrubbed and boiled up and set into jars, and boiling them again to kill the germs; for cleanliness was next to godliness, and heaven knows a whole family in the next township took ill from a bad batch of jam. So Sadie scrubbed and boiled and boiled again.

“Ma –”

“Don’t you...

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