“You’re the queen,” I tell her. “Queens don’t work in the heat.”
She frowns. “Queens do everything.”
I almost laugh.
“Then guard the house,” I say. “Watch the road. If anyone comes, tell me.”
She straightens proudly, clutching the rabbit like a royal advisor.
That afternoon, I walk to the nearest town—Oakridge—shoes rubbing blisters into my heels. Adults glance at me the way they look at stray dogs: cautious, pitying.
I don’t want pity.
I scan the bulletin board outside the corner store. Lost pets. Yard sales. Church dinners. Then a handwritten note catches my eye.
Farm help needed. Mr. Jenkins. Daily pay.
I copy the address and go.
Mr. Jenkins’ farm smells like manure and production. Chickens scatter. Tools hang neatly on barn walls. The old man himself stands by a tractor, sun-browned skin, eyes sharp.
“What do you want, kid?” he asks.
“Work,” I say. “I learn fast.”
“You’re small.”
“I’m hungry,” I reply. “That makes me strong.”
Something shifts in his expression.
He points to feed sacks. “Carry those. If you don’t quit, come back tomorrow.”
I carry them.
My arms tremble. My lungs burn. But I don’t stop.
At dusk, he hands me crumpled bills and a heel of bread.