Grace followed her sister Felicity awkwardly down toward where the women were digging for clams. It was a neap tide, the water barely moving over the course of the day. That made for difficult digging, but if they wanted to eat they had to dig.
The salmon run had been poor this year. The worst in the colony’s short history. The colonists had staked out nets and weirs as they had done the previous year, but had caught hardly anything before everything was swept away by a great storm and unusually high tide one late September night. By the time things were repaired the bulk of the fish were far upstream.
Grace dropped the baskets in a heap beside Felicity and another girl named Hope, who said in a voice laden with dramatic import, “We’re all going to die here.”