"A strike?" My wife shakes her head, trying to wrap her mind around it. "A strike? Gerald, are you mad?"

"My head has never been clearer," I reply, strangely calm. Matilda keeps yelling at me, saying I'm nuts, but after the brouhaha in the Togalach, no shouting can affect me. I've become immune. And I'll have to stay like this, until we get our rights.

"Gerald, are you listening?" Matilda grabs my hand. "Gerald! Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm saying you can't strike; you need this job. Laundry doesn't make much money. We have seven children- seven! They all need food and clothes and school. I'm not mending another worn dress- Gerald, for God's sake, do you care at all about us?"

I sit at the kitchen table, massaging my temples. I can't believe what's happened. Only six hours ago I was here, getting ready for that meeting. Now I'm a leader- a leader!

"Papa." Belinda, my sweet girl, comes into the kitchen. She's taller than I remember; how much can a girl grow in six hours? Time's flying; soon I might be dead and never have a decent day at work. You are doing the right thing, I tell myself.

"Your father just threw his job away," Matilda spits.

"Matilda!" I protest. "I haven't been fired, and I won't be if Mac-Guffin has any sense. It's just a demonstration. It will be quick and fast."

"It's never quick and fast!" Matilda throws up her hands. "God dammit, Gerald, I'm so angry with you!"

"Mother!" Belinda gapes, shocked that her sweet mama cursed.

"Well, I'm sorry, I just so happen to want to be able to feed my family!" My wife throws on her shawl and stomps toward the fire escape.

"Where are you going?"

"Out, that's what. If you can go and do as you please, then so can I."

"Matilda!" I sigh. She's forgetting this is America. "We'll be fine; it's just-"

"Not fine!" She flings the door ajar.

"Matilda, you're not going out drinking." I'm half-serious, half-joking. I try to imagine my sweet, pure Mattie girl, sitting on rickety stool or chair in a tavern full of drunkards and ruffians. It's so impossible I want to laugh and cry out in horror at the same time.

"I never said I was going drink- at least not like you." She pauses before stepping out. "Money needs to be saved. I'm just going out. I need to think and clear my head."

"It's cold. You-"

"You know what it is to starve, Gerald." Her voice is not longer loud, but still angry. Hard, serious, not raising or lowering at all. "You lived through the potato blight."

The humor dies. My mouth drops open slightly, not sure if I heard right. Potato blight. The words vibrate in my head. I heard right. My fists clench, my stomach tightens, and I breathe fire, like the dragons in my mother's stories.

"Don't. Go. There." I speak in tight, terse, harsh puffs, the way a man gasps for air when he knows he's drowning. My chest is heavy and leaden, my ears are filling up, my arms weaken all over… I'm drowning in my past.

"Gerald-"

"No, no, NO!" I roar. "You have no idea what the Great Starvation was like! So never- and I mean never- try and act like you do!"

Potato pratties smelling like dung. The searing, numb, and then dull ache in our stomachs, slowly killing us. Desolate fields stretching, overtaking the green hills I so loved. The children piling up, dead decades too soon. Their parents following them, ready to escape this cycle of pain. Our landlord fleeing to England, where food was available, abandoning us to our fates. My mother, the coffin ship we took to get away, the mummy thrown into the sea…

I'm drowning in the sea of fear, loneliness, and sorrow. So unjust, so unfair, so out of our hands. So many deaths that would not have happened if justice was served. True, we might not have been able to prevent the blight, but we could have made room for all of us. I'm sure. If only the English and the landlords and the nobles and… too much.

Matilda's visibly shaken, seeing me vent my rage. I shouldn't be vindictive, and I'd never hurt my love, but I want her to feel some of my pain. I want to be rid of this, this… burden. My father's agony, my mother's death, this drowning of my soul… I want her to see why this strike must happen. If my father had striked, maybe his body would not have been worked to the point where it broke like an old gear. Maybe I'd still have a father if it weren't for the bosses. Maybe if he'd stood up…

Let the dead rest in peace. I can't bring back Father. But I can bring back myself. And I will create a new, better world for my Belinda, who is huddled by the table, frightened. Her caramel hair shrouds her face. God, she looks so much like her mother… and not too different from mine.

Matilda still stands in the doorway, letting the chilly air rush in. She has nothing to say for once. I've rendered her speechless- an impossible task- but I feel no victory. Only ashes. We stand still, paralyzed from the hurt, wanting to speak but having no words to put upon our tongues. Our mouths are filled with gray ash, our lungs with seawater, and our minds- the mind is a maze to get lost and starve in. I'm not sure why it was made at all, except to punish us for two stupid humans eating forbidden fruit like mischievous schoolchildren.

Finally Matilda, my wife and love- mo ghra- speaks. "I'm sorry, Gerald. I-" She breaks off before turning to go. "I'm with child." Then she leaves.

Belinda flees to the children's room, where they all hide. I catch a glimpse of Jack peeking out at me with Mary before the door closes. Beautiful, mo seada, whom I am striking for.

I am right. Justice in America is possible. Amerikay. Ceartas. Mathair. Saorise. I will avenge and find you.

Mo ghra- my love

Mo seada- my treasures

Amerikay- America

Ceartas- Justice

Mathair- Mother

Saorise- Freedom