Chapter 5: Crumbs

"Give me the knife," I said.

Torsten didn't move.

I crossed the workshop floor in my bare feet and held out my hand, palm up.

"It's mine," I said. "Whatever happens to those threads happens to me too. You don't cut anything without asking me first."

His eyes came up to mine.

Then he turned the knife around and laid the handle in my palm.

I put it on the workbench, behind the vise, where he couldn't reach it from the crate.

"Now get up."

He got up.

His hand was still shaking, so I took it.

It was a huge hand, rough across the palm.

It closed around mine very carefully.

The shaking stopped.

I felt it stop through the thread.

"Come on," I said. "I'm cold."

I walked him across the yard to the house with his hand in mine, and neither of us said anything.

There was a light on in the kitchen.

Beck stood at the counter in his pancake shirt, up to his elbows in dough.

He glanced at us, at our hands, and went back to kneading.

"I can't sleep," he said. "I bake when I can't sleep."

"There's coffee, and in forty minutes there's bread."

"Feed him," I said. "Then we'll talk."

"Absolutely."

He put a plate in front of Torsten, with cold chicken and a slice of yesterday's bread and a pickle.

Torsten sat at the kitchen table and ate every bite, and did not look up once.

I let go of his hand only when the plate arrived.

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