The line went taut—Evelynn hauled a silver-green fish into the sun.
"Got one," she called, voice sharp against the tangle of bamboo.
"Careful, Eve," a deeper voice warned from the path. "Don't lose it." Dillon's shadow crossed the bank before his feet did.
Hudsyn Brock's laugh came first. "Lucky catch. Or the gods finally pity you."
Evelynn kept her hands steady. "It's not luck. It's practice."
Hudsyn stepped closer, eyes on the flop of scales. "That fish will rot in your hands. Why bother? Bring it here, girl. I'll sell it proper."
"Back off," Evelynn said. Her fingers found the soft cavity at her waist where the Gourmet Space sat like a stitched secret. She didn't say its name. She didn't need to.
"You got a hand in your skirt?" Hudsyn sneered. "What's the trick? Speak up."
Dillon's laugh came, low. "She's working hard. That counts for more than bluster."
"Working hard won't fill a plate," Hudsyn shot back. "Not for them. Not for—"
"Hand it over, Hudsyn." Lara Wheeler's voice cut through with no patience. She stood at the path, apron speckled with river mud. "You keep talking and you'll trip into the stream."
Hudsyn bristled, mouth open, then shut when a group of women from the lane peeked around the bend.
Evelynn didn't answer. She folded the fish on a flat rock, wiped its belly with a rag, and slid its
