Chapter 11: Sold to Mr. Adams

Zombie Dad broke his promise.

My heart sank as I realized he’d led me somewhere new, not to my sister’s house. Hope drained out of me like water from a broken pipe.

He sold me to an old teacher nearly fifty years old.

Mr. Adams looked like the kind of guy who ironed his socks and scowled at sunshine—his nose sharp, his voice sharper. He wore sweater vests and glasses perched on the edge of his nose, the kind of man who corrected your grammar even when you were crying.

And even lied to me: "Ben, if things go well, I’ll come get you in three months and get your sister out; if not, just treat me as gone."

He ruffled my hair, his smile tight, and turned away before I could argue. I watched the back of his head disappear, feeling smaller than ever.

I watched him leave, my heart a tangled mess.

I wanted to scream, to run after the truck, but my legs wouldn’t move. All I could do was clutch Mom’s locket and pray. I tried to memorize his walk, his laugh, even the way he waved goodbye. But all I could focus on was the ache in my chest, heavy and cold.

The man driving the truck never looked back, heading west into the sunset.

I stood in the driveway, squinting into the dying light, wishing for a miracle that wouldn’t come.

Before I could adjust, the old teacher called me over for instructions.

His voice snapped me out of my daze, sharp and impatient.

"I teach ten students every day. You need to set out pencils, notebooks, and erasers on their desks ahead of time."

He handed me a checklist, eyes scanning for any mistake. I nodded, trying to hide my trembling hands.

Besides that, there was the old teacher’s food, laundry, and daily chores.

I made mental notes of everything—how he liked his coffee, the exact way to fold his shirts, the temperature for his showers.

Teachers are picky eaters.

He inspected every meal like a health inspector, sending back anything that didn’t meet his standards. I learned to cook and clean faster than I ever thought possible.

Bread had to be white sandwich bread.

He insisted on Wonder Bread, and heaven help me if I brought home whole grain.

There was a small bread maker at home, used every three days.

It whirred in the corner of the kitchen, the smell of fresh bread almost enough to make me forget where I was.

When the old teacher got tired of bread, he wanted something different.

Wheat had to be ground into fine flour, mixed with water, made into dumpling soup.

He gave precise instructions, watching over my shoulder as I kneaded dough and chopped vegetables.

Clothes were plain, but the old teacher was a stickler for cleanliness.

He kept a bottle of stain remover in every room, and I washed and rewashed shirts until my hands were raw.

Any stain from a meal meant a change of clothes right away.

He’d tsk and shake his head, pointing to the laundry basket before I’d even finished clearing the table.

And every day he had to shower and change, just boiling water and doing laundry wore me out.

My arms ached, and my back throbbed, but I kept moving, afraid of what would happen if I slowed down.

Leaving me no time to grieve.

I fell into bed each night, too tired to cry. Sleep came fast, dreamless and heavy.

While picking vegetables and washing clothes, hearing the clear, steady reading from the study, I couldn’t help but yearn for it.

The sound of students reciting lessons drifted through the open window. Their voices were calm, steady—a world away from the chaos of my own thoughts.

After finishing a passage, the old teacher would explain and break it down for the students.

His words were patient and kind, nothing like the man I saw in the kitchen. Sometimes, I wished I was one of those students, safe and cared for.

Over time, I could understand too.

I picked up words and phrases, memorized sentences. It became a lifeline, something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.

In a blink, more than a month passed, and I worked faster and faster.

My hands grew calloused, my movements automatic. The days blurred together, but I got things done in half the time it took before.

So much so that when I had time, I’d secretly hide outside the window to listen in.

I’d crouch beneath the windowsill, careful not to make a sound, letting the words wash over me like sunlight.

Once I understood, I wanted to see more.

I started sneaking into the study late at night, tracing letters with my finger on the chalkboard, hungry for knowledge.

Like the words and letters.

They called to me, promising a future I could barely imagine—a future where I could read and write my own story.

One morning, after setting out the writing tools, seeing it was still early, I couldn’t help but open the workbook, grab a pencil like the students.

I hesitated, listening for footsteps. The house was quiet, so I slid into a chair, heart pounding, and opened to the first page.

Then sat up straight at the desk, rolled up my sleeves, and prepared to write.

I gripped the pencil tight, determined not to mess up.

"What are you doing?"

The voice was sharp, scaring me so much I shivered.

It sliced through the silence like a siren. My hands flew to my lap, and I turned slowly, dread pooling in my stomach.

Turning around, I saw it was the old man, and quickly stood up. "Mr. Adams…"

He towered over me, face unreadable. I kept my eyes on the floor, afraid to meet his gaze.

The old teacher paced in front of me, sneering. "You want to learn to read?"

His tone was mocking, but underneath it, I heard something else—a challenge, maybe, or a test.

I nodded, then quickly shook my head. "I wouldn’t dare."

Fear tangled my words, but hope lingered, stubborn and bright.

He chuckled, turned his back and pushed the door open to the sunlight.

Light spilled into the room, painting everything gold. For a moment, I thought maybe things could change.

The sunlight outside slanted in, bright and dazzling, but the old teacher’s shadow completely enveloped me.

I shivered, caught between hope and fear, not sure which one would win out.

A chill crept up my spine.

There’d be a guest tomorrow. You’ll go with him.

I was unwilling, my face pale.

I pressed my lips together, bracing myself for whatever came next. Tomorrow, a stranger would decide my fate. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, wishing I could vanish into the morning sun.