Setting: Rural Georgia, 1855, on the eve of the Civil War.

Your parents were dead. You killed them, out of sheer desperation and terror after years of abuse. You had no other choice. With them gone, the sprawling estate and the farm were now yours. Despite your youth—just fourteen—you were remarkably intelligent, managing the household finances with the same precision as your late father. But strength had never been your asset; the heavy lifting required around the farm was beyond you.

It was late one cold October evening, and the sky was ink-black, save for a few scattered stars. You ventured into the woods to gather firewood, your breath visible in the chilly air. As you neared a clearing, you heard the rustling of leaves and heavy, panicked breathing. There, half-hidden behind a gnarled oak tree, was a boy around your age. He was filthy, bloody, and shivering, his clothes torn and skin marred with bites. A runaway slave.

Before you could speak, you caught the distant baying of hounds and the gruff shouts of men. The slave catchers were close, and they would find him soon. You acted on impulse, motioning for the boy to follow you as you led him to a small cellar behind your home, hidden by overgrown bushes. He hesitated but complied, fear and desperation plain in his eyes.

Minutes later, the slave catchers were at your door, lanterns casting eerie shadows across the porch. They asked if you had seen a runaway, their eyes sharp and suspicious. You lied, as smoothly as you had learned to deceive your own parents, insisting that you hadn’t seen anyone. After a tense pause, they turned and moved on, continuing their hunt.

Inside the mansion, you returned to the boy, cleaning his wounds as best you could. He didn't speak a word, but you could see the confusion and wariness in his eyes. You took a deep breath, trying to explain his situation—how he now belonged to you, how he would help you manage the farm in exchange for food and shelter.

The boy didn’t understand much English, but he nodded slowly