Wix’s father, Kedrik, was a hard and brittle geode of a man, formed by the immense pressures and prolonged difficulties of his life.

The wounds from his time as a bounty hunter, working for the Federation, had not maimed him. Because of course they hadn’t. He was too stubborn to let something like a bullet keep him from walking. From working. From being a man. Wix sometimes thought that long after he was too old for manual work, his father would still be out tending to his farm, skinny as a clump of sticks and wrinkly as an old, dried out peach.

There was nothing skinny or old-looking about him, yet. Except when he moved. He couldn’t have been much older than forty. But there was a stiffness in his right leg that sometimes prompted the use of a wooden cane he’d carved and finished himself. His neck also appeared stiff, particularly when he walked. With every step his left shoulder seemed to ride upward, bobbing to the rhythm of his gait.

At that moment he stood still, but that rigidity could still be regarded in his posture. That marked discomfort.

“What are you doing?” He said.

Wix realized his hand was still raised in mid-wave. He glanced over at the girl on the platform, who was still looking at him, and then back to his father.

“Nothing,” he said.

Kedrik’s forehead began to crinkle as his brows pressed together. He looked up at the Darovenians on the platform, then back to Wix.

“Don’t do that, ” he said.

Wix stood tall, stepping away from the signpost. “What?”

“That,” Kedrik said. “What you were just doing.”

“What was I doing?”

“Fraternizing,” Kedrik said. He began to walk toward their cart, parked on the side of the street, just next to the sidewalk.

“Because they’re Darovenian?” Wix said.

“Because she’s a girl,” Kedrik said. “And you’re not old enough yet for that nonsense.”

Wix bit down on the inside of his cheek. Not enough to bleed, but enough to distract himself, turn his energy in another direction.

In moments of disagreement, when he felt Kedrik was being obstinate or unfair, it was usually best to avoid direct confrontation. Cheeky banter was fine, however. At least to a certain degree. It was only the direct rebellion that made Kedrik mean. That was when the verbal barbs really came out. And sometimes the physical ones, too.

“How old is old enough?” Wix said, following behind.

Kedrik only grunted in response.

“How old were you?” Wix said.

Kedrik paused. He had one arm outstretched, using it to lean against the cart. One of the two horses attached to the front of the cart, named Dusty, was craning his head to look sidelong at them.

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Sometimes, Wix wondered if his mother was the only woman Kedrik had ever been with. He had yet to remarry, and after all this time, Wix seriously doubted he ever would.

Wix had difficulty remembering his mother. At times, he thought he could just barely visualize her, like a rippling reflection on murky, disturbed water. Sometimes he felt that she was just below the surface there, waiting for him to take the plunge and see her clearly again for the first time since her disappearance. But he didn’t want to. He was afraid to, for some reason.

Her name was Ivalyse. Or Ivy, to some. She was a redhead; he remembered that much. In his mind, he saw crimson tendrils of her long red hair hovering about her face like reeds in a lake, buffeted by a strong breeze.

Perhaps it was a memory. In some ways it was so vivid, like a moving picture in his mind. He could see clusters of freckles on her upper cheeks, just underneath her eyes. But he couldn’t quite make out her face. The center of her face, particularly her nose and eyes. That portion of her was blurry, infuriatingly inaccessible.

Questions Wix asked about his mother were met with silence, or an admonition that he didn’t need to worry about it, because it was in the past. Sometimes, Kedrik would just grunt and leave the room, head outside to do some work. He was always working. Jenny would stay focused on her knitting, or whatever project she had going on in the house, and would tell Wix to leave it alone.

“That’s none of your business,” Kedrik said, finally. Wix had been lost in thought, nearly forgetting their conversation. “I’m only telling you it’s in your best interest to leave it alone.”

“Because I’m too young?” Wix said.

“That,” Kedrik said, “And because I won’t see my own son played for a fool.” He heaved himself up into the front seat of the cart.

Wix didn’t move. His feet were planted firmly on the walk. “What are you talking about?”

Kedrik sighed. He leaned back in his seat to look over at him. “That girl knows what to do. How to behave. She’s been told by the others.”

“Told...what?”

“That her only shot at getting out of the mining work, and perhaps even obtaining a citizenship, is someone like you.”

Kedrik paused, looking at him. But Wix didn’t want to take the bait.

“Young,” Kedrik said, in answer to the silence between them. “Naive. Easily tempted.”

“Tempted?” Wix said. “To do what?”

“It’s not unheard of. They’ll let you into the compound,” Kedrik said, grabbing the reins. “They will appreciate your interest. Mining work tends to wear out women the fastest. In just a few years, they’ll be looking to sell her off, make back their investment. But you’ll do nothing of the sort. You’re not going to fall for that.”

Wix felt a tightening in his chest.

Was that the real reason the girl was showing interest in him? And even if it was, why did he care so much?

“Wix,” Kedrik said. “You’re not going in there. You understand?”

“Who said I even wanted to?”

“Whether you want to or not doesn’t matter to me. The point is that you’re not going to.”

Wix sighed. There would be no arguing, in any direction. He would just have to tell his father what he wanted to hear.

Still, he glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of Darovenians. They were already being escorted to one end of the platform and down the stairs. As he watched, the girl looked back at him one last time before turning her gaze downward to focus on the descent.

There had been something about the way she’d been looking at him. Something about...her.

“Come on, boy,” Kedrik said. “We don’t have all day. There’s seed to load up, and a long trip back. And that’s when the real work will begin.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Wix said, reluctantly pulling himself away and walking toward the cart. “How can I resist?”

He hopped into the cart next to Kedrik. He could feel the itch to make one last look behind him, at the girl.

“Life is work, son,” Kedrik said. He clicked his tongue and slapped the reins, causing the horses to begin pulling the cart.

There was an inherent implication in that statement. At least based on the context of arguments between he and Kedrik in the past.

Work was a necessary part of life. And slave work was a necessary part of Alveranderan life. According to Kedrik.

Wix held onto his hat as he rocked back a little in his seat. Once again, he found himself looking back at the chained Darovenians being escorted off the platform.