“Fine,” I say, plucking up a bowl and filling it for him. “Delicious, actually. Enjoy.”
He raises a brow but takes the bowl, adding some rice from the table before mixing it all together and walking down the hallway to his quarters.
“Wow, Tennison, bold. I like you already.” Owens winks at me.
Sanderson is still chuckling as he sits down with the chicken thirty minutes later. Apparently, food is a love language around here, and I literally just gave the Cap—or whatever the arrangement is with him and Hammond—a hugefuck you.
Ah well, if the shoe fits, mate.
The roast chicken is delectable, I’m sure. But since I can’t taste a damn thing, I’ll take Sanderson’s word for it.
Hammond’s gaze hasn’t left me since we sat down for the second time. What is this guy’s deal?
When we finish up, I find the washing up is also a probies job, or so the roster that’s been Sharpie-ed out says. I roll my eyes. The hazing is going to take a while, I can just tell.
I guess I’m lucky, to have this rite of passage. It could have very well been the case that I didn’t get back into the program.Or made it out of our home in one piece to ever have the opportunity.
I think today I’ll count my blessings.
Mama is screaming.
The sound is muffled and I can’t breathe. I scratch at the cupboard door, needing air. The crashing sounds don’t stop.
Another muffled cry, this time further away.
I dread the moment the cries, the screams, the begging stops.
When they stop, I hang between the space of staying hidden and pushing out the tiny safe space Mama put me in.
Those few minutes that stretch for hours as I try to find her.
Find out if she’s still here with me.
Or if he won.
A door slams. It’s too close.
I push my back into the hard backboard of the cupboard.
“No!”
Mama.
She says something in the old tongue I can’t understand.
Something thuds against the wall so close to my hiding space. My heart bangs at my chest, my hands cramped and curled up. Spots start falling as I stare into the dark space.
The door flings open.
He’s swaying as he towers over me before he blurs.
Heat tracks down my cheeks.
Mama . . . she’s too slow. She’s?—
Something hits Dada?—
“Run, bubba!Run!”
