Nessa Tern stumbled through the heavy double leather draft-curtain of the tram kitchen like a drowned sheep dragged from a mill race.
Her late husband’s watch-coat was soaked through with sulfur-laden canal water, dripping greasy black puddles across the clean pine wooden walkway planks. Her woolen shawl was gone, her gray hair plastered to her skull with coal silt. Her face was scratched where she had scraped against the rough granite lining of the upkeep chute.
She didn’t call out. She stumbled three paces into the warmth of the kitchen, caught the corner of the long zinc table with both hands. Then she collapsed onto her knees among the turnip peelings. She gasped for breath with a dry, whistling rattle in her chest.
Len was on his feet instantly.
He didn’t think about his braced left forearm. He surged up from the bench. He used his right hand to catch Nessa under the armpit before her forehead struck the metal rim. The sudden movement sent a violent spike of pain through his collarbone, grinding the fractured radius against the ash wood. But he held her upright. His jaw locked was tight against the agony.
“Nessa,” Len whispered, dropping to one knee beside her in the muck. “Nessa, look at me. Did the bypass hold?”
