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A dull ache in my lower back made itself known as Asha aggressively shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and stood there with utter contempt on her face .

“They’re treating us as if we’re the savages,” she said, and her scathing tone could’ve wounded even the most stoic person in the world.

“We would’ve treated them the same,” I replied weakly, even as it hurt me to admit it. Now, more than ever, I felt how wrong I’d been about Wastelanders. Nobody who could build a place as beautiful as the Valley was a savage. They were the architects of the only hope this fallen world might have.

Asha sighed. “I guess. Can’t wait to start scavving. Get out of this place for a while.”

“We just got here,” I said, nettled. “Can’t you at least give it a chance?”

She fixed me with that unsettling stare of hers. “Look where we are. You think they’re giving us a chance?”

“We’re still here,” I pointed out. “And if we play our cards right, they’ll let us stay.”

As the words came out, I knew I was saying them for myself as much as her…especially when we then had to visit the Jameson homestead. Predictably, they didn’t want us either. The eldest son, Zach—the one who’d made the crude comment about me at the council meeting—met us at the door and sneered.

“Take your outsider trash to the gate,” he said, and John told him to go do something I didn’t have the gall to repeat. Kimmy’s lips twitched, but she managed to maintain her scowl.

“You kiss your wife with that mouth, Madigan?” Zach replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Knowing the quality of woman you’ve got there, she probably enjoys it.

You think because you’re Oisín’s grandson, you get to break the rules?

Nah. But you’ll get her and her friend off our property, or I’ll let my father know about this.

Good luck getting half the Valley to trade with you then. ”

The irony of Zach Jameson accusing John of abusing his grandfather’s former position to break the rules was not lost on me, and John looked like he could’ve cheerfully murdered him. I touched his arm.

“Don’t,” I murmured. “It’s okay. I’ll go wait.”

John gave me a helpless look that said he didn’t want to let this go.

But I knew he had to. The Jamesons had the biggest farm in the Valley, and we needed seeds for planting in the spring.

I also knew that with the amount of influence they apparently wielded, we couldn’t afford to be on their bad side—especially now, when our presence was so new.

I turned away and walked back towards the gate with Asha.

“Good,” Zach grunted behind us. “At least this trash takes itself out.”

Kimmy made a sharp retort as we walked away. Asha and I waited again at the gate, and I tried not to be totally dejected, but it was a losing battle at the moment.

“I wouldn’t worry, Claire,” Asha said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “The guy’s a complete waste of space. You don’t need to impress him, and he doesn’t deserve it anyway.”

I gave a weak smile. She was trying to comfort me, the way she used to. I touched her hand, and we waited in a more companionable silence for the other two to return.

“The next one’ll be better,” John reassured me when we finally rode away. I winced; the ache in my back had spread to my bottom. I wasn’t used riding for hours in a hard leather saddle.

“Yeah, Nimkii’s lovely,” Kimmy said brightly, then added, “I always thought it was too bad she was straight.”

Despite my mood, I laughed as Asha raised her eyebrows. Kimmy flushed a little in response and handwaved it away: “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Asha said, and there was real amusement in her voice. “Pray tell, why would you wish she wasn’t straight? I didn’t know you were into girls.”

Kimmy’s only response was a snort, and my heart lightened a little. It felt good to see Asha teasing her, to know that the friend I remembered was still in there somewhere.

The next homestead apparently belonged to the Payette family, who specialized in textiles. I was finally going to get new clothes, which—whatever I’d told John before—were sorely needed. My current wardrobe had been worn so much that I worried it might disintegrate at any moment.

The Payette home wasn’t visible from the road; instead, there stood a large, rectangular building with a flat roof that looked more industrial than residential. A double glass door faced the road with a sign overhead that read Payette Textiles & Footwear .

“That’s the workshop,” Kimmy explained. “They prefer people go there instead of the house for trade. That’s usually where they are during the day anyway.”

She led the way to the door, and a bell tinkled cheerfully as we entered a spacious room with concrete walls and floors.

A desk faced the door, and a thick binder lay open on what appeared to be a page of orders from customers.

Scattered throughout the space were mannequins wearing half-made outfits, tables covered in measuring tapes, sewing needles, spools of thread, scissors, and sketches of clothing.

In the far corner was a bench, surrounded by discarded shoehorns, foot measuring tools, and other equipment intended for shoemaking.

Rolls of various fabrics were stacked on shelves at the back of the room, next to a door that led elsewhere in the building.

But what really stood out about the place was the walls: they were covered with paintings.

Some were of clothing, but others depicted the landscape of the Valley, nature and animals, and abstract colour schemes.

A blend of passion and skill, they were vibrant, eclectic, and beautiful.

They lit up the room, and an ache opened in my chest. It’d been so long since I’d painted anything.

The distant hum of what I assumed was machinery came through the back door, along with a slender, well-dressed woman in her early to mid thirties.

She was average height, with thick black hair that she’d braided to one side, and radiant copper skin with smile lines that gave her a pleasant, cheerful appearance.

She wore woven bracelets and layered necklaces, and her left earring featured a long grey goose feather.

Her deep purple dress featured small, intricate beading and embroidered floral designs that I could only assume she’d done herself.

It might’ve been the loveliest article of clothing I’d ever seen.

“Welcome,” she said as she made her way over to us, and when she reached the front desk, she smiled at John and Kimmy. “So good to see you again, friends. I am glad you made it back, safe and sound. You have our gratitude for everything you’ve done for us in the Valley.”

John gave her a polite nod, while Kimmy grinned nervously. Asha shot her a look between amusement and disapproval.

The woman turned to me and Asha, reaching her hand over the desk. “I know we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting one another yet. I’m Nimkii. My family and I run this shop. ”

After our introductions, I said, “I was just admiring the amazing paintings in this place. Did you create them?”

Nimkii beamed. “So glad you like them. They are my passion project…when I have the time. My son is only two, you see.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I like to paint, too.”

“She’s an amazing artist,” John interjected. “You should’ve seen her mural back at the camp we stayed at. It was incredible.”

The obvious pride in his voice made me blush, but I continued, “I’d love to know where you get your paints.”

“I make them,” Nimkii said, her eyes twinkling. “Usually watercolours. I have spares that I’d be happy to trade for.”

I looked to John, who scoffed. “You don’t need my permission. We’ll take them, along with whatever canvas you have.”

“Wonderful,” Nimkii replied. “Now, I assume you’re here for clothes.”

“I need…everything,” I admitted. “So does Asha. I hope that’s alright.”

As if on cue, John placed a couple of PNCs onto the desk in front of Nimkii. Her attention snapped to them, and her eyes betrayed her need.

“That’s generous,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “We’ve needed more for weeks. Some of our automated equipment has stopped working. Thank you.”

John nodded. “Just make sure that Claire gets everything she needs…including a wedding dress.”

My flush deepened, and Nimkii’s face lit up.

“It’s always exciting when I get to design for a bride,” she said with a charming smile. “Let’s get started.”

She temporarily returned to the back room, calling to someone in an unfamiliar language. A moment later, a man similar in age to Nimkii and an older woman—who she introduced as her husband and mother—joined us. While Nimkii focused on me, the other two served Asha, Kimmy, and John.

“Your work is beautiful,” I said as she flipped through a sketchbook of designs. “Do you do everything by hand?”

“Oh, no,” Nimkii said with a laugh. “That’d take ages. Thankfully, we have a couple of industrial looms, which makes weaving much easier and faster. But we keep a herd of sheep for wool and grow crops like flax, which we then often spin by hand. We use a mishmash of methods.”

She got to work taking my measurements, then assembled designs for a functional, pragmatic assortment of t-shirts, sweaters, pants, and undergarments, all suitable for working outside in all seasons.

All the while, we chatted happily about painting, swapping techniques and tips.

Nimkii had a soft, affable manner that made her easy to talk to.

She told me about her young son, Makade, who had already discovered a love for fingerpainting, and her Anishinaabe heritage, which fascinated me.

In return, I traded stories about the Cave and my life as a teacher.

Eventually, we finished with the everyday clothes, and I stepped down from the stool she’d had me stand on.

“We’ve got the boring things out of the way,” Nimkii said with a wink. “Now, we’ll fit you for a sweet little dress to wear on special occasions. Something pretty.”