File cabinet.
Desk.
Small iron safe.
Her mother had died when Matilda was nineteen.
Matilda remembered fever.
Doctor.
Abigail whispering about debts.
A paper placed before her after the funeral.
You owe for your mother’s care.
Work it off.
Matilda had signed.
She had been nineteen.
Grieving.
Illiterate in legal language.
She thought she agreed to remain employed until the debt was repaid.
Nine years later, Abigail still said the debt existed.
“How much do I owe you now?”
Matilda asked.
Abigail frowned.
“What?”
“My debt.”
“This isn't the time.”
“Yes.”
Matilda's voice shook.
“It is.”
“How much?”
Abigail stared.
“I would need the ledger.”
“Get it.”
“Matilda.”
“Get it.”
Jedodiah did not move.
Neither did the miners.
Abigail suddenly looked smaller.
She opened a drawer.
Removed a ledger.
Flipped pages.
“Two hundred eleven dollars.”
Matilda almost laughed.
“How did seventy-three become two hundred eleven after nine years of work?”
“Room.”
“Meals.”
“Clothing.”
“Medical care.”
“Interest.”
Jedodiah said:
“Three dollars a month for nine years is three hundred twenty-four dollars.”
Abigail snapped:
“You don't know the arrangement.”
Matilda did.
Or thought she did.
“How much do you charge me monthly for room?”