Saturday market--bushels of onions, squash, and more crab. The fresh vegetables dwindle, and I wonder what Henry and the others eat all winter.

Food is a simple distraction. I haven't heard again from Becky. I'm waiting, certain another letter must be on the way. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions, because my conclusions are always the worst. I'm trying and failing.

People mill among the stalls. I pay for my squash and start back up the hill, toward the Chief's house. The walk feels steeper today, harder. I haven't wanted to talk to him yet, not until I knew something for sure.

Why do I think I'll know anything for sure?