The auctioneer’s hammer struck the plank with a sound that didn’t belong to any human world.
It belonged to doors slamming. To chains. To a final breath.
On the raised platform at the edge of Redwood Crossing’s dusty main street, Clara Bennett stood so still she might’ve been carved from the same sun-bleached timber beneath her boots. Only the tremor in her fingers betrayed her. Her little brother, Eli, clung to her skirt with both hands, as if the fabric were the last thing tethering him to life.
Below them, men shouted numbers like they were calling cattle.
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