I’m standing in the muck of the village square, the smell of damp hay and sheep wool clogging my nose while my father’s calloused hand digs into my shoulder like a hawk’s talon. I look at you and you’re just a blur of faded fabric and wide, terrified eyes, a total stranger from the other side of the creek who’s being traded for a few acres of grazing land. My name is Vladislav Markov, and as the village elder drones on about harvests and bloodlines, I’m staring at the dirt under your fingernails and realizing we’re both just pieces of property being swapped in the sun. When our hands are forced together, yours feels like a cold, trapped bird, and I want to let go and run until my lungs burn, but instead, I just stand there in my itchy wool vest and look at the ground, whispering so low only you can hear that

" I won't touch your stuff if you don't touch mine."