Sold to Wolf Hollow

When I woke, I had been sold to the wolves.

The sky outside was painfully blue.

I remember that first.

Blue sky. Green trees. The smell of wet straw and old wood.

For one absurd second, I thought I was still dreaming.

Then the iron around my wrists scraped against the floor.

I opened my eyes fully.

I was lying in a wooden shed, on a pile of straw that scratched my skin through my clothes. My hands were chained to a metal ring hammered into the wall. The room had no window. Only thin lines of daylight leaked through the gaps between rotten planks.

I did not scream.

Maybe the drug had not fully left my body.

Maybe fear had frozen the sound inside my throat.

Or maybe some part of me understood immediately that screaming would only tell them I was awake.

Outside the door, men were talking.

“This one is good,” a rough voice said. “Young. Clean. College girl.”

Another man grunted.

“How much?”

“At least thirty thousand.”

“Thirty?” The second man spat. “You think I’m stupid? They were twenty before.”

“Come on, Garrick. Thirty thousand for a bride for that boy of yours? Cheap. And this one is educated.”

A laugh followed.

A wet, ugly laugh.

“Besides, your son doesn’t know much. You can still—”

“Twenty-five.”

“If you don’t want her, someone else will.”

Silence.

Then the second man said, “Fine. Thirty.”

The first man laughed again.

“Good doing business.”

The voices moved away.

I lay very still.

College girl.

Bride.

Thirty thousand.

The words arranged themselves inside my skull with terrible clarity.

My name was Ivy Chen.

I was twenty-one years old.

Three days ago, I had been walking back to my apartment after evening study group.

Now I was in a shed, chained to a wall, listening to men discuss me like livestock.

My stomach twisted.

The drug still made my head pound, but I forced myself to breathe slowly.

Panic later.

Observe now.

The room was small. Six steps wide, maybe seven long.

Thirteen roof beams.

Forty-nine iron links between my left wrist and the wall ring.

The door opened inward.

No window.

Packed dirt floor beneath the straw.

I pressed my fingers into the straw until the sharp ends cut my skin.

Pain helped.

Pain made me count.

Pain kept me from begging the walls to turn back into my dorm room.

Hours passed.

Or maybe minutes.

Time had no shape in that room.

Finally, the door opened.

Light stabbed my eyes.

A man stood in the doorway, too tall to see clearly against the sun.

“Wake up,” he said. “Eat.”

His accent was thick, but I understood enough.

He threw a bowl near my feet.

Inside was a gray-white bun.

I did not move.

The man stepped in.

“If you’re smart, you’ll behave. Once a girl comes to Wolf Hollow, she stays.”

Wolf Hollow.

I stored the name.

He nudged the bowl with his boot.

“Eat.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

Then he kicked the bowl over.

The bun rolled across the dirt and landed in the straw.

He picked it up, dust and all, and grabbed my jaw.

“Eat. In a few days, you marry my son. Until then, I’m being generous.”

I clenched my teeth.

His fingers dug into my cheeks.

“You think you’re too good?”

I refused to open my mouth.

His expression changed.

The first kick landed in my stomach.

All the air left my body.

I doubled over, retching on nothing.

“You stupid bitch.”

He raised his boot again.

I curled up, arms over my head, waiting for the blow.

It never came.

Something slammed into him instead.

A thin, wild sound filled the room.

Crying.

No.

Not crying.

Whimpering.

“Food,” a woman mumbled. “Food. I’m hungry.”

I opened my eyes.

A woman with tangled hair clung to the man’s leg.

She was so thin her bones seemed to press against her skin from the inside. Her dress hung off her like a sack. Her face was smeared with dirt, and her eyes were cloudy, unfocused.

The man cursed.

“Get off me, crazy woman.”

She did not.

“Food,” she whispered again.

He kicked her.

She fell, but instead of running, she crawled toward the bun in the straw.

Her hands snatched it up.

She backed into the corner like an animal afraid I would steal it from her.

Then she shoved the filthy bread into her mouth and swallowed without chewing.

I stared.

The man spat on the floor.

“Disgusting thing.”

For some reason, her interruption saved me.

He left and returned with another bun, cleaner this time.

He dropped it in the bowl.

“Eat,” he said. “Or don’t. But if you die, I’ll just buy another.”

Before leaving, he leaned down and gripped my chin again.

His breath smelled of tobacco and rot.

“Listen well, girl. You are in my house now. You belong to my son soon. If you run, I break your legs. If you scream, I break your teeth. If you die…”

He smiled.

“…I get my money back from the trader.”

Then he left.

The door shut.

The lock clicked.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the bun.

Then I picked it up.

My hands were shaking.

I tore off a piece and forced it into my mouth.

It was dry enough to choke on.

I swallowed anyway.

Because dead girls did not escape.

And I was going to escape.