Chapter Three

Celia's POV

The trip was long and bumpy.

The bus wound along mountain roads for four straight hours. After we got off, I was shoved into the bed of a beat-up pickup truck that stank of chicken droppings.

By the time we reached the Puckett farm, it was pitch-dark.

The wooden house leaned to one side, and cold wind poured in through the holes in the windows. The yard was piled high with moldy hay.

The second we walked through the door, Wade and Charlene dropped their stiff, eager-to-please act.

Charlene snatched my backpack and dumped everything in it onto the dirt floor.

Some faded old clothes, a phone with a cracked screen, and a few dozen dollars in cash.

"That's it?"

She looked disgusted and nudged the clothes around with the tip of her shoe.

"That rich guy said you've been living the good life with them for over ten years. How come you don't even have one decent piece of jewelry?"

Wade swore, came over, and dug his fingers into my shoulder. His grip was so strong it felt like he was going to crush my bones.

"You ungrateful little brat. I paid for the gas out of my own pocket just to bring you here."

"Starting tomorrow, you're cleaning the pigpen and doing the cooking. Nobody eats for free around here."

My fever still hadn't broken.

After being dragged around for days, every bone in my body ached like someone had taken a hammer to each one.

I tried to shake off his hand, but he gave me a hard shove, and I fell to the ground.

My knee hit a sharp rock. The skin split open right away, and blood ran down my leg.

Since my blood wouldn't clot properly, the cut looked especially bad.

Charlene glanced at it, sneered, and spat on the ground.

"Oh, quit being such a baby. You played rich girl in the city for a while, and now you think you're made of glass?"

"Go chop that pile of wood out back!"

They locked me in a shed full of farm tools.

There was no bed, just a pile of damp hay.

Cold wind slipped in through the cracks between the boards and cut against my skin like a knife.

I curled up in the corner and pressed my frozen fingers against my bleeding knee.

But the bleeding only got worse, until the hay under me was soaked red.

Lying there, I thought about the life Sloane had back home.

When I was six, all I did was look at the doll in her arms a little too long, and Mom dragged me into the corner and made me stand there all night.

Later, Sloane started piano lessons that cost two hundred dollars each.

Meanwhile, just to earn the next day's breakfast, I had to get up at five every morning and wash the mountain of dishes piled in the kitchen sink.

I'd always believed that if I did what I was told and kept my head down, someday they'd finally notice me.

But all they ever saw was how "ungrateful" I was.

The next morning, I woke up to a bucket of cold water in my face.

Charlene stood over me holding the plastic bucket, her eyes mean and hard.

"It's almost noon and you're still lying around? You got a death wish?"

I struggled to my feet. Everything in front of me was spinning.

The fever had left my lips so dry they were cracked and bleeding, and my forehead was covered in cold sweat.

She sent me out to the yard to do laundry.

The well water was freezing. My hands turned bright red in no time, and my knuckles throbbed with pain.

Three days of hard labor with barely anything to eat, and I got sicker every day.

On the fourth afternoon, while I was feeding the pigs, I collapsed without any warning.

My nose started bleeding and wouldn't stop. The blood kept dripping onto the filthy dirt.

Wade walked over and kicked me in the side.

"Quit playing dead! Get up and get back to work!"

I looked up at him. My voice came out weak and thin.

"I'm sick... Take me to a hospital..."

Charlene leaned over to take a look and curled her lip.

"A hospital? You know how much one ER visit costs?"

"The rich guy made it real clear. We're supposed to straighten you out and make you suffer a little. So quit faking it!"

They dragged me back into the shed and locked it from the outside.

In the dark, I fumbled the cracked phone out of my pocket.

The screen lit up faintly, shining on my bloodstained hands.

I opened my contacts and called Mom.

This was the last time I'd ask that family for help.

I wasn't trying to stay alive. I just wanted to know how cold they could really be.

It rang for a long time before she finally picked up.

"Hello?"

She didn't even try to hide how annoyed she was.

In the background, I could faintly hear Sloane playing the piano, the music smooth and lovely.

"Mom..."

I barely had the strength to say her name, and the tears came before I could stop them.

"It hurts so bad... There's so much blood..."

"They hit me. They won't feed me... Mom, please, come get me..."

"That's enough, Celia!"

Mom cut me off sharply.

"How long are you going to keep up this act?"

"I told you, we sent you there so you'd learn to be grateful, not so you could call me with some sob story!"

"Sloane's got a really big performance coming up. Stop calling here and distracting her."

"When you finally drop the drama and the games, maybe I'll think about coming to get you."

The second she finished, she hung up.

I gripped the phone and listened to the dead line. Slowly, my lips twisted into a bitter smile.

Learn to be grateful.

With one careless little line like that, they'd signed my death sentence and still got to feel like good parents.

I closed my eyes and tossed the phone into the corner.

"Fine."

"Then I'm done pretending."