𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 | 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘗𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳

Prologue

I don't cry.

Crying doesn't bring dead people back to life. Crying doesn't fill the bare cupboards with food. Crying doesn't milk the cow or go into town and have a good selling day.

Crying is a waste of time. I've never cried. I've seen the others do it, and they are reduced to a pile of mushiness and tears and sadness and despair. They can't do anything for several hours.

So is anger, I suppose. Being angry doesn't improve the situation, or make anyone apologize. It's pointless, really. So why do I find myself being angry all the time? I can't show it, I have to not show it, but it's always there, resting in my gut like a seed waiting to sprout.

Some things help with my temper-doing things, busying myself. Taking care of the kids, teaching the baby how to walk, making a friend.

I want to help more than just that, but when I ask I am met with the same response:
You are too young.

Aren't we all?

Aren't we all too young? Too young to have been dumped on the doorstep of a run-down building. Too young to have been rescued from a burning house, barely alive, but faced with a future that may or may not be worse than death. Too young to have been unwanted by the couple who conceived you. Too young to be considered the cause of a mother's death.

They're right, these kids are too young. Most of them don't understand why they've been left, and they don't understand, until they're older, that not every kid lives like we do.

We survive on very little food. The older kids give the younger ones their portions. My elbows and ribs are so pronounced that in the dead of night I'm sure I look like a skeleton.

Every month our number increases, making it harder and harder to give food to everyone when we're already spread as thin as possible.

And so you repeat to yourself, so you don't forget who you are, and what you're doing, and how old you are, since there's no calendar nor any mirrors here, no wardrobes full of clothes and closets full of backpacks and beach toys and basketballs. We can't afford luxuries like that.

My name is Ashlynn Dream. I am eleven years old. I was born sometime in May. My best friend is Mira. I take care of the kids. I have grey eyes and blonde hair. I sneak into town and beg for food. I don't cry.

I don't cry.

I don't cry.

My best friend is leaving.

She's lucky. One of the few that a couple in town has taken a liking to, and one of the few that is wanted. She's being taken today.

I don't cry.

I don't cry.

So why am I here, crying?