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“Here.” She unwraps a white cloth napkin and hands me two thick, rough-cut slices of homemade bread. An uneven layer of butter sticks out between the slices. Probably all she could get away with taking from the kitchen without anyone noticing.
“Thank you.” I take a bite and chew slowly, savoring soft, squishy bread and the rich butter coating my tongue.
“It’s fresh. Momma Ruth gave it to me,” she whispers.
I lift an eyebrow, then wince as it pulls and stings.
“Jensen!” She gasps. “Your forehead.”
“Is it bad?”
Instead of answering, she bites her lip and pulls out the gauze, antiseptic, and ointment again.
“It’s okay, Jensen,” she coos in her high-pitched, babyish voice. “Every scar tells a story.”
“Ah, the tongue of the wise brings healing,” I whisper. I still my body as she cleans the cut over my eye.
“Momma Ruth give you the supplies too?” At least one of the wives doesn’t hate me. Ruth isn’t much older than I am. My father just brought her home one day and added her to his collection of disciples who live on our family compound.
“Yes,” Jezzie says. “I like her. She lets me sleep in her room.” Her voice falters. “The nights Father isn’t in there.”
“Good.” Pain and exhaustion pull me down to the floor again. “Thank you, Jezzie.”
She lets out a hiccup-sob and curls her small hand around my fingers. “I love you, Jensen. Please get better. I miss you.”
A devil wraps its hand around my throat, leaving me incapable of making any promises. But I manage to whisper back, “Love you too.”
Even if I don’t survive, I want her to know that much.
A few days later, I’m able to move without screaming. The door to my cell opens and I recoil. Fear races through my veins. But the long sweeping skirt all the women in the commune wear swishes across the stones.
Not my father.
I lift my gaze.
Ruth, her long red hair twisted into two complicated braids under a white bonnet, smiles down at me. Even in the weak light the freckles on her face and rounded cheeks suggest she should still be in school, not living as a slave to a religious fanatic who whips his children and locks them in small dark rooms for days as punishment.
She holds out a stack of clean clothing and a pair of shoes. “Your father says your confinement is over. You’re to go to school and then come straight home.”
School? Today, I can sit up without screaming. But I don’t think I can tolerate an entire day riding the bus and sitting in the hard metal chairs in each classroom. And God help me if one of the morons who enjoy mocking my clothes shoves me or even touches me. Instead of stabbing those bullies or cutting off one of their fingers—which I’ve decided I’ll definitely do one day—I’ll probably pass out from the pain.
Ruth crouches in front of me, her long dress pooling on the floor around her feet, and sets the clothes next to my hip. “Let me look at your back.”
Instead of fresh bandages or ointment, she pushes an envelope into my hands. Confused, I frown and open it. A small blue paper rectangle flutters to the floor. Social Security is printed in red, curved letters at the top. My name and a long string of numbers.
Ruth stares at me with wide eyes, but I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell me. I quickly pull out a piece of paper and unfold it. Certificate of Birth.
Documents. My documents.
I stare at her.
She bows her head and picks up a fresh roll of gauze and attends to my back. I bite my lip while she changes and cleans the wounds. Wadded up piles of rust-colored bandages drop on the floor while she works.
I stare at the envelope. A piece of green paper snags my attention.
A twenty-dollar bill.
Tears sting my eyes. Ruth barely knows me and she’s risking her own safety to help me leave? That’s what this is, right?
