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“Good day, ma’am,” he said. “I was passing through, and I wondered if you might have any jobs that need doing.”
    “I’m sorry, we don’t,” his mother answered. She tried to shut the door, but the man took a step closer. Michael quickly stood up.
    “Please, ma’am, I ain’t had a proper meal in three days. Could you spare me anything to eat? Even a crust of bread, I’d be grateful for, if you have it.”
    “Anna, you best not be feeding hoboes,” his grandmother hissed from her place at the table. His mother turned her head slightly, and Michael knew she had heard the admonition. No one spoke until Anna’s soft voice broke the silence.
    “Wait here,” she told the man. In a flash, his mother went to the kitchen and grabbed the small, hard nub of the bread loaf left on the cutting board.
    “Anna,”
his grandmother said, but his mother ignored her again.
    “I’m sorry it’s not more, but we have very little,” his mother said as she handed the crust to the man on the porch. “Now, you be on your way.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” he said. Michael watched over his mother’s shoulder while the stranger cradled the stale bread in both hands, as if it were a precious jewel, before scuttling backward off the porch.
    “You’re asking for trouble, Anna,” his grandmother snapped after the front door was safely closed. “There are too many strange men wandering about. You start feeding them, and they’ll mark this place to let others know there’s food to be had here.”
    “You didn’t see his eyes, Lizzie. They were just…empty with hunger. Besides, the crust I gave him was hardly fit to be eaten.”
    “Just the same, don’t do it again. You’ll put us all at risk, especially with Niall and Seamus gone.” His grandmother got up from the table and walked stiffly to the door. She put on an old coat and a pair of gloves. “I’m going to go check for eggs,” she said before she left.
    His mother started to clear the table, and Michael picked up his own dishes and silverware to help her. “Mother, I thought I might go hunting this afternoon,” he said. Even though they had just finished lunch, he was beginning to regret his refusal of the hard crust she had offered first to him. His mouth began to water at the thought of the lovely ways his mother might prepare a rabbit or a nice grouse.
    “We could use the meat,” she said, “but first, I need your help. The root cellar needs cleaning out, and it’ll go faster with the two of us. Besides, there’s something down there I want to show you. Something your grandmother doesn’t know about.”
    What frustration Michael felt at having to delay his hunting expedition vanished after hearing his mother’s last statement. She set the dirty dishes in the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. When she put on her coat and went out the back door, he did the same.
    The old farmhouse had both a front and a back porch, each shielded by an overhang. A door opened out of the floor of the back porch. From there, a steep stairway descended into a large root cellar.
    “Your grandfather designed everything about this farm so well. It’s really a blessing now, how our root cellar is hidden,” his mother said as she pulled open the door and started down the stairs. “Even the hungry wanderers going door-to-door these days can’t tell it’s here. And it’s so convenient to the house, not like some that are built out in people’s yards. Imagine having to dig a path through the snow every time you need an onion!”
    The root cellar was lit by a pair of bare lightbulbs protruding from the low ceiling. The thick, damp air smelled of cold earth. Shelves ran the length of the walls. A few mason jars containing pickled vegetables and fruit preserves sat on the uppermost levels. Pumpkins and Hubbard squashes rested on the lower shelves, along with empty jars being stored until they were needed. Nets of dried onions and garlic hung from hooks on