Namm had carried sacks for twenty-three years and knew exactly how long he could pretend his back was not hurting.
Until the first break, easily. Until the midday meal, if he changed sides and let the younger man take the sacks with the awkward seams. Beyond that, the pretence cost him the walk home. He would stop by a wall he did not need to inspect, look interested in the weather and wait for the tightness to let him move again.
His wife knew.
She had stopped asking about the wall.
On the morning of the four hundred and ninety-third day, she put his food beside his coat and asked whether the belt would run.
“Empty, if they’ve done it right.”
“And if they haven’t?”
“We wait until they have.”
