By eight o’clock the wind was rattling the loose screen on the kitchen window.

The overhead bulb showed green water spots along the edge of the sink and black grease rings all along the drain board.

Noah sat at the kitchen table with his arms pulled deep into his sweater sleeves.

His fingertips were puffy and bright pink from three hours in the cold rinse bucket.

“My thumbs hurt, Mom,” he whispered, tugging at his sock cuffs under the table.

“You did good work today, Noah,” I said.