The paramedics had to pull me away. I'd fought them. Screamed.
It was my fault. I’d been too small and safe to notice the danger. If I'd been big, been alert, been watching the window instead of the TV, maybe I would have seen the car. Seen the guns. Pushed him out of the way.
Maybe he'd still be alive.
"Lot 34, opening at one hundred thousand..."
I'd regressed twice after that. Once in the hospital while they operated on my knee, the anesthesia pulling me under and bringing Little Sophie up. Once two weeks later, alone in the apartment we'd shared, surrounded by his things and his smell and the bloodstain on the floor I couldn't afford to have professionally cleaned.
Both times I'd surfaced feeling like I'd betrayed him. Like Little Sophie was a weakness I couldn't afford. A vulnerability that got people killed.
So I'd stopped. Buried her. Built walls. Stayed big and alert and armored every minute of every day for three years.
It had worked. Kind of. I'd survived my father's death. Survived six months of debt collection. Survived long enough to be drugged and sold, which was its own kind of achievement.
Little Sophie would have broken by now. Would have regressed and curled up and needed someone to take care of her. Would have been useless.
I needed to be useful. Needed to survive. Needed to stay big.
The door opened. The woman in the grey pantsuit stood there with a neutral expression.
"You're up. Come with me and I’ll explain the rules."
"Okay," I said. My voice was steady. Adult. Big.
Little Sophie stayed buried where she belonged.
Wewalkedthroughconcretehallways that smelled like a heady mix of expensive cologne and sweat.
The woman in the grey pantsuit moved efficiently, her heels clicking on concrete, not looking back to check if I followed. She knew I would. Where else would I go? Every door we passedwas locked from the outside, every turn leading deeper into the facility.
Through one door, down another hallway. The sounds grew louder—hundreds of voices, the rustle of programs, the clink of glasses. A party. A business event. A market.
We stopped at a heavy velvet curtain, deep red, the kind theaters used for wings. Professional. Expensive. Everything about this place screamed legitimacy, like if they just invested in the right lighting and decor, they could make slavery look like commerce.
The woman turned to face me. Her expression was neutral, practiced. How many people had she walked through this curtain? How many assets had she prepped?
"Listen carefully. I'll only explain once." Her voice was crisp. "You'll walk to center stage when your number is called. Stand still. Face forward. Don't speak unless asked a direct question. Don't make eye contact with the buyers. Don't try to run—there's security everywhere and it only makes your price drop."
I wanted to laugh. As if my price mattered. As if I cared whether I sold for ten dollars or ten million when the result was the same—owned, controlled, used until the debt was paid.
"Hands at your sides," she continued. "No fidgeting. No crying. No emotional displays. The buyers want to assess the asset, not manage your feelings. If you're asked a question, answer clearly and honestly. Lying will be discovered and punished. After the sale, you'll be taken to a private room to finalize paperwork with your buyer. Do you understand?"
"I understand you're selling people and calling it business."
Her expression didn't change. "Do you understand the rules?"
"Yes."
"Any questions?"
I had a thousand questions. I asked the only one that mattered. "What happens if no one bids?"
Something flickered in her eyes. Might have been pity. Might have been impatience.
"Every lot gets sold eventually. It's just a question of price." She checked her tablet. "You're up in three minutes. Stand behind the curtain until you hear your lot number."
She pulled the curtain back slightly, just enough for me to see.
