"Don't open that door, Colette," Colette muttered as the knuckles at the gate rattled. "Colette!" Clementine banged the kitchen door with a wooden spoon. "You plan to sleep through harvest and supper?" "Not sleeping," Colette called, voice muffled. "Just conserving energy." "Conserving. Always conserving," Fitzgerald grunted from the table. He folded the ration ticket and tapped it. "Conservation won't put milk in that tin." "That's the point." Colette's voice slipped under the door, sharp and lazy at once. "I like the tin." "Then get up, you lazy lump." Clementine shoved the door open and shoved Colette's blanket with two fingers. "You promised you'd help at the shed. Volunteers are here. You can't hide forever." "I can hide for another hour." Colette rolled out, hair a mess, and landed in a crooked heap by the stove. She didn't light the kerosene yet. The smell of boiled potatoes and stew filled the small kitchen like permission. "Another hour?" Fitzgerald looked at her with the kind of look that meant he had counted the hours she'd skipped this month. "Colette, you're eighteen. Get your shirt on." "Does eighteenth-year law require farm labor?" She smirked, fishing for the clean shirt on the chair. "Only in this house." Clementine leaned in, softening. "Sit. Eat. You need food before you go. And I packed an extra jacket." She handed over a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. "And a tin. Don't tell me it's