The weather has turned from spring to summer over the past few weeks. The heat presses down, relentless and stifling, just like everything else in this place. There's no escape. Gilead's new green initiative has done way with AC in most public buildings and homes. Only high-ranking Commanders have cooling units in their bedrooms and the home office. The only public buildings with it are the Council building and Jezabel's. For the rest of us, we're lucky if we are issued a fan.

This afternoon, Mrs. Waterford has me re-rocking the flagstone patio behind the kitchen, a project I am sure she waited until the hottest day to assign. I shouldn't be surprised; Serena is a sadist. She goes above and beyond to make other people's lives as miserable as possible; for example, when she had me arrange for the gravel delivery today, she demanded that it be dumped in the driveway instead of up by the patio where I'm to spread it. This means I must physically shove it, bag it, and haul it up the stairs just so I can dump it up there to spread it out. It's such a waste of time and energy.

An hour into my taste and sweat is running down my back, soaking my shirt and dripping into my eyes. In the before times, I might have done a job like this shirtless, drinking a couple of cold Mexican beers, but not in Gilead. Nope, in Gilead, they got me in a dress shirt and tie—exactly how they want me. Neatly packaged and utterly miserable.

The sound of feet on the stairs distracts me from my misery. I look up secretly, hoping to see Rita with a glass of water, but it's Offred, her eyes properly cast to the ground under her wings. Over the past several weeks, Mrs. Waterford has slightly loosened the restrictions on the woman. Offred is now allowing her out of her room to sit in the garden for 30 minutes at midday and has begun to take meals in the kitchen. She has to eat alone, but it's progress.

I take her in for a second and mentally scoff. I thought a short sleeve shirt and tie were bad, at least I'm not required to cover everything but my face. In an ankle-long dress, cap, wings, and a cape, she looks like she's going caroling in the dead of winter, not about to take a mile-long hike in July. I guess Gilead would rather the Handmaids pass out from heat exhaustion than dare to let them show the skin of their forearms...so dumb. I watch as she glides down the steps but stops on the bottom stone. She's puzzling out how to bypass my project that blocks her way.

I shake myself from my thoughts, "Sorry," I offer, dropping my shovel to move the bags and wheelbarrow out of her way. She says nothing and heads for the gate. "Going shopping?" I ask like a moron. Since the night in the kitchen nearly two months ago, I've not shared a single word with this woman; it's a good thing, too, because I shouldn't be trusted with small talk apparently.

She stops, her eyes glance around before she responds. "Yes."

I can do better, redeem myself. "If you're going to All Flesh, you should avoid the chicken; I read they have crazy levels of dioxin." Yes, I'm talking poultry. And … rebound, Nick.

I move my wheelbarrow back into place and take up my shovel. She pauses and turns back towards me. "I'm going to Loaves and Fishes," She counters.

She's engaging in this stupid conversation, I'm suprised. Then again, she must be desperate for human connection after spending most of her time in her mistresses-imposed solitude. I turn towards her, attempting to catch her eye. "Oh, then you should definitely avoid the tuna," I say, despite the fact I shouldn't be talking to her at all, not like this. But after weeks of silence, the words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. Maybe I'm desperate, too.

She refuses to look at me but continues our conversation by asking, "Mercury?"

I feel a strange jolt at getting this much out of her, even if it is a ridiculous conversation. "No, I just don't like tuna very much," I return light-heartedly. This earns me the flash of bright blue eyes. A small win, but I'll take it. I control the smile that wants to creep onto my face and turn back to shoveling to hide it. She stands in place momentarily before ending our brief encounter with, "Peace be with you."

I focus on my task until I hear the gate latch, and though I know I shouldn't, I can't help but look up. We lock eyes. It doesn't last long, it's just a second really, but I see that flash of something that I saw in the kitchen weeks ago. It's full of wary, intrigue, worry, and desperation, making me sad. I look away. It hits me then just how alone she is. No friends, no allies, just a walking partner who might get her killed. I'm sure she hasn't any idea, but Ofglen is someone from whom she should distance herself. Ofglen has caught the attention of the Eyes recently, nothing concrete, but since when does that matter?

We're all lonely in Gilead, every one of us, but if you're lucky, you might have a couple of people who make occasional circles in your orbit. I've got Rita, with her snarky remarks and eyes full of words she never says. We don't talk much, but there's something in sharing the same space day after day. It's not friendship, not exactly, but in Gilead, it's the closest thing to it. I also have my connections, black market Martha's, and drivers who help me get the things that keep me in the Commander's good graces. I'm closer with some more than others. Beth, a Martha at Jeszabel's, is one of the few. I can share my frustration and treasonous words with her when they've built up to the point that I feel like I'm going to explode. She's there to listen to the rants, then to tell me to "man up and to get my shit straight" before pulling me into the cooler to release other forms of pent energy. What we have is mutual. Beth gives me what I need, and I give her the same—no strings, no feelings. In Gilead, that's perfect. But it's also empty.

Scrapping the last of the gravel into the barrow, I lean against my shovel to catch my breath. I think again about the look I saw in Offred's eyes and decided to warn her about Ofglen. It's not my place, and I know saying anything might raise suspicions for her, but it's the least I can do to try and keep her safe. I can't stop the Ceremonies, make Mrs. Waterford treat her like a human being, or even offer her reading suggestions, but maybe I can keep the Eyes for noticing her.

Despite the heat that permeates every corner of the world today, the Commander's office is cool; dare I say, it's right down cold thanks to the AC being pumped in. It's so cool in here that I've just finished lighting a fire per Fred's request. Within moments, the fire crackles happily in the hearth, unnecessary and absurd, much like everything else in this house. It adds heat to a world already stifling, but Fred likes the illusion of comfort and control.

Fred Waterford walks over to the fireplace and holds his hands to the flames. "There is nothing like the sound of a fire burning merrily in the hearth of home to clear one's head," he states, very clearly pleased with himself. Fred likes to talk about the simpler life and emissions reduction,- his role in saving the planet, but he lives in luxury. A fire in July, AC cranked to 62, a gas-guzzling Benz for a three-block drive—it's all an illusion of power and control.

Fred claps his hands together and moves to the small bar on the opposite wall. "Drink?" he offers.

I check out the bottle in his hand. It's the new batch of vintage Kentucky Bourbon I managed to procure for him a few days ago. He rarely allows me to take part in my spoils, so I'm not going to pass the opportunity up. I nod, "Thank you, sir." He pours a stingy glass for me, a generous one for himself. Just like everything in this place—power, privilege, comfort—it's all his, and everyone else gets the scraps. I take a small sip of the bourbon before settling into the chair he's indicated. The bourbon is excellent - smoky but smooth.

Commander Waterford drops down opposite me and puts his feet on up the small table between us. "That was fine work you did on the patio, son," he states, sipping his drink.

I nod, "I'm glad to serve this blessed household," I return.

Waterford nods. "Yes. yes. You know Nick, Mrs. Waterford, and I are very grateful for your loyalty over the years," he says.

I feel my jaw tighten, and the liquor I was enjoying begins to burn in my stomach. I've been here long enough to know adulation always comes at a price. I nod, forcing a smile. Loyalty is one of his favorite words. It's always loyalty with Fred, but loyalty only goes one way in this house.

"Mrs. Waterford said she noticed that you and our new handmaid are getting along quite well," he states, trying to sound casual, but the comment is anything but.

I check my mask to ensure it's firmly in place before responding. "Oh,? I don't know about that, sir. I've not spoken to her before today," I lie, "And it was only to make a shopping request," I deflect.

He narrows his eyes at me but seems to buy the excuse. "Do you think she's adjusting well here?" he asks.

My heart stutters for a second, but I keep my face blank. Any sign of emotion, any hesitation, and this could go very wrong. I give him the answer he wants—detached, obedient, harmless. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."

He blows a long breath out through his nose, "Does she seem…stable, happy?" he clarifies. I'm not getting out of this by feigning ignorance.

Happy? In this house?It's a joke, but no one's laughing. Not her, not me. I decided to suggest something small that might help her, despite the fact that it probably won't matter."It might help her to eat her meals with Rita, not alone every day," I suggest evenly.

He seems to mull this over and, to my shock, nods in agreement: "Yes, too much isolation isn't good for the soul, even a womans."

"No, sir," I mutter, wanting to grind my teeth. Since when is the effect of solitary confinement only stressful for men?

He sighs and stands up, downing the rest of his drink in one go. This is a sign that the meeting is nearly over. I finish my small mouthful and stand as well. "So, I got you off garden duty tomorrow, at least for part of the day," he says as if it's a tremendous gift. "I need a ride into the city tomorrow for a morning meeting."

A morning off from shoveling rocks, and he thinks it's a gift. It's not generosity, just another way to remind me who holds the power. "Yes, sir. What time, sir?"

"Nine o'clock. Oh, and I want to take some tokens of my appreciation to my Comrades," he says, gesturing towards the boxes of bourbon and setting his glass down on a serving tray.

I bow a bit in understanding and retrieve the tray to take to the kitchen. "Under his Eye," I state, heading out the door.

"Yes, Under his Eye."

My day starts when I'm awakened by the toll of bells ringing out from all the church towers in the area. The pattern is unmistakable, a message for Handmaids: there's to be a salvaging today. Gilead has taken capital punishment to the next level. Those who are deemed guilty by a court of officials, long gone are juries, do not die the relatively peaceful death of lethal injection, as the did in the old US of A. Under Gilead's rule, those dimed serious offenders are either publicly hung or shot, but some people, the most despicable or those who threaten the fabric of the new regime the most, they receive a special punishment: a stoning wielded by the group that was supposedly offended. These bells tell me that someone has done a handmaid wrong. It's likely a low level man taking the fall for one in a black suit. No one in a black suit is ever stoned. It's disgusting and cruel for everyone involved. I have only been to one salvaging, as a guard, not a participant, but that day still haunts my dreams. I think of Offred and sigh. There is nothing I can do to save her from this; this is just part of living in Gilead. I hope Offred is strong enough to cope, as she will not be given a choice. Giving my eyes a scrub with my palms, I get out of bed and start my day.

This morning, I'm preparing Fred's aforementioned bribes. Bribes come in all forms, today it's fancy liquor. This recent accusation will undoubtedly be used to pave the way for Fred to accomplish the "great things" he has planned for Gilead. I've just moved the boxes to be loaded into the hall from the office when Fred appears from upstairs and calls me over. "When you are done loading these in the car, could you let Rita know that I'd like some more oranges from the market? I don't believe the Winslow's gets coupons for them; it would be a nice gift for the Mrs's when I visit on Friday," he directs.

Another bribe. "Of course, sir." I consent.

Once I've loaded the last box of booze to the boot of the Mercedes, I make my way to the kitchen. I come around the corner from the hall but pull up short of crossing the threshold when I see Offred standing at the counter, her hands folded on the countertop. My words likely set her free from that prison of her room, but I can't help but wonder at what cost? This freedom means more access for Fred, and that's a different kind of cage. There are no easy wins in this house, but at least she gets a change of scenery. My stomach turns with the complicated feeling of relief laced with guilt. I wipe the surprise off my face before stammering a "Good morning" to the two women.

"Good morning to you," Rita says with her signature of disinterest.

"Praise be," Offer states, nodding a bit in greeting.

The surprise of seeing her has me spinning a bit, so it takes a second to remember my errand. "Uh, the Commander wants you to get more oranges...if they still have any," I direct at Rita.

Rita's retort is snarky, per usual: "Yes, sir. It's my pleasure. "Are there any other special requests?" Rita asks sarcastically.

I cough into my hand, shifting uncomfortably. Rita's sarcasm cuts through my awkwardness, but it's Offred's quiet interjection that throws me.

"They had tuna at Loaves and Fishes yesterday," she says, stammering a bit, "It looked good, you should…you should get some," she ends softly.

Her words hang in the air, soft but deliberate. Who knew she had that in her? I'm impressed.

Rita looks at her suspiciously, and it takes everything I have in me not to laugh out loud.

"Oranges and Tuna. Sounds delicious." Rita smirks. Tossing the towel onto the island, she makes her way for the door. "Under his Eye," she states, disappearing into the day beyond.

Offred dips her head respectfully and returns with her own "Under his Eye."

Amused more than I should be, I lean back against the door frame, taking the handmaid in. We lock eyes for just a second, and I can't keep the grin at bay any longer, so I let it out just a little. Aren't you a surprise? I think. She doesn't exactly return the gesture, but she does look pleased with herself, which is a gift all on its own.

The bells ring again, sharp and merciless, dragging us back to reality.

"'Go in grace,' I say, though the words feel empty. There's no grace here, only survival.