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making her decision based on nutritional value. Her twin stepped up to see what was being offered.
    “What’s he got?”
    She handed her the package. “Lasagna.”
    “I like lasagna. You?”
    “Sure. What’s not to like?”
    She called over her shoulder. “Bucky.”
    The man turned, a large metal fork in his hand.
    “What d’ya say?” She held up the package. “Lasagna?”
    He shrugged. “Sounds good. I ain’t had lasagna since I used to date that pretty li’l cheerleader.” He stabbed a piece of the meat and held it out to the women.
    “You ain’t never dated no cheerleaders,” she said, wrapping the meat in a piece of newspaper before handing it to Tanner.
    “Have so. She was about yay high.” He held the fork out at about shoulder level. “And she had the cutest little set of—”
    “Bucky,” both women warned in unison.
    He chuckled and turned back to tend to the grill.
    Tanner passed the meat over to Samantha and stepped away from the stall.
    “Don’t you want any?” she asked.
    “Nah. I’m saving room for that chow chow.”
    She shrugged and took a bite.
    “Okay, but this is way better.”
    They spent the next thirty minutes wandering through the market, stopping to look at all manner of food, clothing, and tools. Some of the items were homemade, others were taken from abandoned houses, and a few even had tags from where they had been looted from ransacked stores.
    At the far end of the flea market were a series of tents from which people offered training in a host of forgotten skills. Classes included farming with horse and plow, candle making, animal husbandry, woodworking, blacksmithing, weaving, and pottery making. The folks giving the classes all looked to be hardworking farmers with an interest in living like pioneers—a skill that was more valuable now than ever before.
    Tanner and Samantha stopped and stood with a small crowd, watching as a blacksmith conducted a class on shoeing a draft horse. The animal stood nearly seven feet tall and had a broad, short back and tremendously powerful hindquarters. Its legs were feathered with soft white fur that reached down to the hooves. Despite its fearsome size, the horse seemed docile and patient, the product no doubt of thousands of years of domestication.
    The blacksmith was a lanky man with thick forearms and a bushy mustache. A red port-wine birthmark ran from the top of his scalp to behind his left ear. He wore a thick leather apron that hung all the way down to his knees with the name “Gus” sewn onto the front. A cart stacked with hammers, pliers, files, and blades sat to one side, and a steel conical beak anvil had been set up on a thick stump of wood.
    “How about we get a volunteer to help me shoe this horse?” he said, surveying the crowd.
    No one stepped forward.
    “Come on, now. Anyone can do it. I promise it’s not dangerous.”
    A barrel-chested man who stood as tall as Andre the Giant shouted from the audience.
    “It might help if you wiped that lipstick off your face.”
    He turned to the crowd for their approval but found only furrowed brows and admonishing stares. Andre responded with an emphatic middle finger all around.
    Doing his best to ignore the big man, Gus said, “Come on, this’ll be fun. Let’s have a volunteer.”
    Without saying a word to Tanner, Samantha stepped forward.
    “I’ll give it a try.”
    The blacksmith quickly sized her up, as if deciding whether or not she was a worthy apprentice.
    “I do believe you’ll make a fine farrier.”
    “A fine what?”
    “A farrier.” Gus cupped a hand around his mouth as if sharing a secret. “It’s just a fancy name for a blacksmith who works with horses.” He turned back to the audience. “What do you say we give this brave young lady a hand?”
    The group offered a brief round of applause.
    Andre said something, but the clapping drowned him out.
    “Better put this on,” Gus said, handing her a thick leather apron.
    Samantha slipped the strap