“You still have food, don't you?” she asks without looking up.
I look at the plate strewn with crumbs beside me on the floor.
“You have to pace yourself!”
“I'm bored.”
She sucks her teeth and stops the machine. “I'm sorry you're bored. But sometimes we do things we don't want to do, and this is one of those things.”
Sometimes I don't believe that people are coming to get me. We've been here for a year and I haven't seen or heard of anyone. She won't let me make friends or go to the neighbors. The few times she's let me leave the ranch was with her and we don't speak to anyone, we just go to the stores to get what we need.
“The animals, m-m-om. They need to be w-w-watched.”
“They'll be fine. Now here, read your book,” she says, passing me Green Eggs and Ham. It used to be my favorite. She would read it to me before bed and tickle my nose when it was my part to say “Sam I am.” It was the first book I could read aloud the whole way through without stammering. But now, she just gives it to me when she needs me to be quiet.
I flip through the pages and roll my eyes. I can recite the book backwards and reading it is pointless now. I begin to get angry. I want to scream. I want to go out and play. This isn't fair.
“I do not like it in this r-room. I do not like it on the floor. I do not like this anymore!” I scream.
Mom scurries over to me and sits next to me. “Shhhh! You have to be quiet.” She rubs away my tears. “Heeey, that was so good what you did there. Did you just make that up?”
I nod.
“That was a good poem!”
“When's Scoot com-m-m-m-ing?” I ask, my mouth quivering with sobs.
“He's—oh no,” she mouths, jumping up to her feet, looking through all her materials. “Do you have your composition book in here?” she asks.
I hand it to her. She goes to the back, counting the days on the calendar.
“Crap. He's coming today.” She glances at the clock. “He'll be here in an hour. I need your help Sam, we need to fix this mess up and get everything back to normal,” she says.
I'm happy to have dad and Scoot back, and to be out of the room, so I begin cleaning up the scraps. Mom doesn't like dad to know about the times we hide. He gets angry and threatens to take me back to Sacramento. But I know he never will. He doesn't want me around all the time like that.
We run around the house, cleaning, vacuuming. I put on my boots and run out to tend to the horses and goats. They made a mess and have run out of food. As I walk out of the stalls, I see my dad pulling up in his pickup truck with Scooter in the passenger seat. I stand there with a bucket in my hand, waiting for them. Dad stops the car and Scooter jumps out of his side and runs at me.
When he gets close, he punches me in the shoulder. “Ewww, you stink.”
“I-i-i-it's t-t-t-he ami-ami-animals,” I say. I want to sound perfect for dad, and it always makes me worse.
Dad walks over. He's not wearing his uniform today, just a pair of blue jeans and boots with a striped shirt. “Hey, son,” he says, rubbing my head. “Mom inside?”
I nod.
“Looks like she's put you to work, that's good. You can't just read books by yourself all day. We have to keep working on our project, okay?”
“What project?” Scoot asks.
Dad pats him on the back. “Go get your mother, will you?”
He looks at us suspiciously but runs towards the house.
“How's mom been? Acting strange?”
I shake my head. I need to protect us from spies.
“I worry about you here.”
I look down at my feet, at the bits of manure stuck on them.
“Alright, well, I won't force you out of here. But you should tell me if she's hiding anything.”
I can't tell whose side he's on.
“Let's get in the house. You need a bath. Have you eaten?”
I shake my head.
“Well, then you need food too. You are gonna need all the energy you can get for tonight.”
He's locked me in again. The room has no trace of evidence of the previous week's insanity except for the crack in the bathroom door. I thought I had at least chinked his armor, but every day is like a new one for him. I never know who will be walking through that door. But before I can further analyze my predicament, hunger burns through my belly. The bag of dried meat he gave me was just enough to hold me through the night. Just as always, I know nothing. I don't know when my next meal or visit will be. Time doesn't exist here.
I make my way to the bathroom. I ran out of water the day before and in a moment of wishful thinking, I yank on the chain from my shower, hoping for a trickle. I don't expect the water that drenches me. “Shit!” I hiss as I jump back. This is good, though. He filled my water stocks!
I look down at my naked body and decide I should just finish the job, pulling the cord all the way and hoping into the stream of water. I open my mouth, hydrating myself and my baby.