Asa arrived at Iven’s bench with an iron pot, six sticks of wood and a question about carrying handles.
He moved the plant out of her way.
“Don’t break that,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You looked ready to put the pot through it.”
He cleared a larger space. Asa set the pot down and took a folded sheet from her coat. A dozen names ran down one side. Beside them were kitchens, stall sizes, number of workers and the kind of fuel each used.
“People who could cook on the ground,” she said. “If they had equipment they could get there.”
He read the first column. He knew half the names by their food rather than their faces. The noodle vendor. The woman who sold hot bean cakes near the pump steps. Two shared kitchens serving households displaced by the turn.
