Orphan Maker by D Jordan Redhawk

of gray knitted socks. She liked the feel of cool mud on the soles of her feet. Eying the rubber bladder overhead, she wondered if she would be required to refill it. The task looked easy enough to do with the lowering mechanism, but water was heavy. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to hoist the thing back into position. Since Loomis hadn’t told her otherwise, Gwen left it alone. She wasn’t about to muscle the thing to the creek and back. Loomis had said they would regain their strength, and then they would talk about chores.
    Chores. The word was something her ’rents had used with regularity. It was synonymous with washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom. Gwen had hated cleaning the bathroom. Considering these people used an outhouse, she imagined the job entailed a lot more than squirting cleanser and swishing it around the toilet bowl. How did you clean out a hole in the ground? Her feet were tender from both the sandals she had worn when leaving the city, and the developing blisters from the new boots obtained along the way. She scooped up the boots, remaining barefoot even though she minced when she walked over uneven ground. Maybe she could talk that kid, Terry, into making her a pair of moccasins. They might not look like the “real thing” but they appeared comfortable.
    Lucky, Heather and the little girls still sat at the picnic table, though Lucky looked damp around the edges from her bath. The children babbled about something or other, and showed off their toys. Lucky nursed Oscar. Gwen knew Lucky’s milk was drying up. Soon they would have to find some other way to keep the baby fed, or Oscar would die. She hadn’t seen any cows here. Maybe one of the other townies had milk to spare.
    The summer kitchen was a roofed structure over a slab of concrete. It had no walls. Sheets had been strung up in one corner to give Kevin some seclusion while he bathed. Terry sat at the edge of the makeshift divider, apparently keeping up a running conversation with the boy on the other side. It seemed they had struck up a friendship after all, and Gwen was glad. Kevin had been lost when his big brother had died.
    Loomis swept up a pile of matted hair. While Gwen showered, Kevin had gotten his haircut. Sitting on a chair by a worktable, Rick sharpened the biggest pair of scissors Gwen had ever seen, stropping the edge against a length of leather. At the other end of the table sat a collection of fresh vegetables. Cara stood at the stone fireplace, stirring a pot of something that smelled wonderful. Despite being full to bursting, Gwen’s mouth watered at the aroma.
    “You want a haircut, too?” Rick grinned, snipping at her with those giant scissors.
    “Not with those.” She pulled her wet hair to one shoulder so she could hold it securely. “What are those? I ain’t never seen them that big.”
    “Sheep shears,” Loomis answered. “They’re about the only thing that’d cut through that boy’s mop.”
    “You use those on the sheep?” Gwen moved closer, looking over the tool. Rick gave it to her, and she hefted it in one hand.
    Loomis finished her cleanup and leaned the broom against a post. “Yeah. Every spring we shear the sheep for wool.”
    “Those socks you’re carrying are made from it.” Cara sat at the table and began slicing a potato.
    Gwen squeezed the rolled material. “Someone actually made these? By hand?” It boggled her mind. The corpse of their parents’ society lay at their feet, overflowing with whatever they wanted or needed, and these people made their own socks. And the yarn to knit them! The last thing she remembered making was an ashtray in her eighth grade art class.
    Loomis sensed her dismay. “Well, we don’t have the luxury of supermarkets or strip malls out here. Things wear out, and we make do with what we’ve got.” Her tone was sour, as was her expression. Rick didn’t respond, but Cara raised an eyebrow.
    Is she stupid?
Gwen wondered, anger flickering at the