“What is this place?” I asked, barely aware of Patrick guiding me to the side near the paint-stripped walls.
“A market.”
I watched patrons accept their wares and leave without payment, stuffing goods into their baskets. They hopped from queue to queue, collecting corn, then sprouts, then leeks, and potatoes. “They don’t pay? Is it charity?”
He chuckled humorlessly, and it fell over my shoulder, curled into my ear. “Not charity. Just fair share. None of us here are wanting anymore.”
I watched as mothers came and left with full baskets, none taking more than the others. “You’re communists,” I accused.
Patrick tilted his head. “Yes and no. We don’t share everythin’.”
“But you share food,” I guessed. “And coal, water, gas. No one pays.”
“They pay for the whiskey,” he said, “and the hats
