Scotland, 1898. This is Margaret. She’s nineteen years old. And her hands are too damaged to make a fist. Margaret is a herring girl—she follows the fishing fleet up and down the coast, gutting herring for twelve to sixteen hours a day. The work is brutal: ∙ Stand at a wooden trough ∙ Grab a herring ∙ Three cuts: head off, gut out, throw in barrel ∙ Repeat ∙ Thousands of fish daily The knife is razor sharp. One slip and you lose a finger. Margaret’s hands are covered in cuts. Deep slashes across her palms and fingers. The salt from the brine barrels gets into every wound. Burns constantly. The cuts never heal—she’s working again before they can. Her fingers are permanently curled from the scarring. She can barely straighten them. The cold makes it worse—working outside in Scottish winter, hands wet and freezing for hours. She’s paid by the barrel, not by the hour. Work faster or earn nothing. No choice. She’ll do this until her hands are too destroyed to hold the knife. Then she’s...