Chapter 4

He snatched my backpack and barked, "Come on. You really think you're some rich family's precious little prince?"

I followed them toward the door. Dad stayed on the sofa without turning around.

Mom called after me.

"Miles. When you get out there, behave yourself. Do as you're told, and don't act as entitled as you do here. Once you've thought things through, you can call. We'll come get you."

I stopped and looked back. Beyond her, on the wall, hung an enormous family portrait. Dad, Mom, and Nolan smiled brightly at the camera.

I wasn't in it.

"I understand."

I opened the front door.

"I won't be calling you."

* * *

The trip was long and miserable. A bus wound through mountain roads for four hours. After that, we climbed into the bed of a beat-up farm truck that reeked of chicken manure.

It was late at night when we reached Briar Hollow.

The Hasketts' house had crumbling brick walls, drafty windows, and a yard piled high with moldy straw. The moment we stepped inside, the awkward smiles they'd worn at the Voss estate vanished.

Martha tore my backpack away and dumped its contents into the dirt: a few faded shirts, an old phone with a cracked screen, and a little loose cash.

"That's it?" She nudged my clothes with her shoe. "That big-city businessman said you've been living the high life for years. You couldn't even bring a decent watch?"

Clive swore, grabbed my shoulder, and squeezed until I thought my bones might crack.

"Ungrateful brat. I had to pay my own way just to come get you. Starting tomorrow, you clean the pigpen and cook our meals. Don't expect me to feed you for free."

My fever hadn't broken. Days of travel and illness had left every bone aching. I tried to pull away, but Clive shoved me to the ground. My knee struck a sharp rock, and blood ran down my shin. With my blood barely able to clot, the injury looked far worse than it should have.

Martha spat near my feet.

"Quit acting so delicate. Spend a few years playing rich boy in the city and suddenly you're made of glass? Go chop the firewood out back!"

They locked me in a storage shed packed with farm tools. There was no bed, only a heap of damp straw. Cold air sliced through cracks in the walls. I huddled in a corner, pressing my freezing fingers against my knee as blood soaked into the straw.

I thought of Nolan, safe and comfortable at the Voss estate.

When I was six, I'd done little more than glance at the limited-edition robot model in his hands. Mom had dragged me into a corner and made me stand there all night. Later, when Nolan started piano lessons, each session cost $300. Meanwhile, I got up at five every morning to wash a sink full of dishes just to earn breakfast for the next day.

I'd believed that if I was obedient enough, grateful enough, small enough, one day they'd finally notice me.

All they'd ever noticed was how supposedly ungrateful I was.

The next morning, a bucket of freezing water jolted me awake.

Martha stood over me, gripping the plastic bucket, her expression vicious.

"The sun's already up and you're still sleeping? You got a death wish?"

I struggled to my feet, the world tilting violently around me. Fever had split my lips and soaked my forehead with sweat.

She sent me into the yard to do the laundry. The water from the well was painfully cold. Before long my hands were bright red, and my joints throbbed with every movement.