Chapter 2: Bargaining With a Wolf

Heavy breathing filled the room, thick as August air. My whole body burned, sweat gluing the sheet to my legs as neon from outside painted the room in streaks of blue and red. I was so hot I could barely swallow—my throat stuck, tongue dry as dust.

My feet barely held me up, like I was walking on a carnival ride gone wrong. The cracked linoleum seemed to tilt under my toes, so I gripped the battered table, dizzy and desperate for water.

I grabbed a plastic bottle—the kind you buy from a bus station vending machine. I gulped it down, remembering the last time anyone cared enough to bring me a glass of water when I was sick. Water ran down my chin and soaked my shirt, but I didn’t care. Still not enough.

I needed more—I needed help. My body slid to the floor, the room swirling with colors and pain. The feeling in my veins was like a starving ghost, gnawing me raw.

Dad was dying. My brother sold me to Magnolia House for six hundred bucks—barely enough for a junker off Craigslist. I’d told myself I was ready, but the shame pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, like trying to breathe under a wet blanket.

The house mother said I was pretty, gentle. She didn’t hit or yell. She just marketed my innocence, found a big spender, and planned to auction me off like some rare bottle of whiskey. I’d already given up hope. Where could I go, anyway? No ID, no cash—even if I ran, all I could picture was the Greyhound station at dawn, other lost girls slumped over their bags, nowhere to go but the next sad stop.

Still, the house mother was paranoid. Maybe she didn’t want me to fight or remember too much. That sweet tea left me stuck—my head foggy, limbs useless. I remembered her fake-smile pat on my arm, like a snake in church clothes.

Tears stung my eyes. The floating comments flickered again, taunting me with every word about the Whitmores, lost daughters, and marriage contracts. Rage bubbled up—why hadn’t they come for me sooner? Why did my family throw me away? Why did I have to be the scapegoat, the villain in their drama?

No. I didn’t want this. I crawled up from the floor, sobbing. Downstairs, a drunk cursed at the TV, but all I heard was my own heartbreak.

[Madeline, hurry while no one’s around!]

With that, I forced myself into the hallway, lights flickering, heart pounding out a rhythm of pure defiance.