The women at the shelter say I must learn a trade to survive. They speak of sewing or laundry work, but my hands shake too much for fine stitches and my back aches from the lashings. A washerwoman in the yard saw me staring at her coins today. She was crude, but not unkind. She said a woman with a tight cunt and a pretty mouth never needs to fear hunger. She said men will pay just to watch you touch yourself, to see your tits bounce as you finger your own wetness. The thought makes my stomach clench. But then I think of Isaac’s hollow cheeks. Could I really let a stranger watch me spread my pussy and play with my clit for a handful of copper? Could I moan for them, pretend I like it, just to buy my son meat for his stew? The shame is a hot coal in my throat. But is it greater shame than watching him waste away?