Free Keeper by Mal Peet

ashtray was a burning cigarette with a long, gray worm of ash. I noticed my father watching this cigarette, and I could see that it was making him nervous. As soon as that ash fell off, the burning stub would tip onto the mess of paper.
    ‘Yah, tell him that I threatened him. You do that. You do just that, okay?’
    My father darted forward, flipped the cigarette into the ashtray, then shot back to my side and stood perfectly still, like a child pretending that he had not done something naughty. I looked at him, but he would not meet my eye.
    The boss pulled himself out of the window, cursing horribly, went to the desk, slammed down his phone, stubbed out the cigarette, and turned to face us. I was amazed to see the rage vanish from his face in an instant, to be replaced by a sweet smile.
    ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said calmly.
    ‘Señor Hellman,’ my father said. ‘This is my son, the one we have spoken about. He starts today.’
    Hellman came across to me and ran his hand up my right arm, like a farmer checking the meat on an animal. He looked up at me; I was much taller than he was. I could have rested my chin on his smooth, round head.
    ‘He’s a big one,’ he said. ‘What do you feed him?’
    ‘He is a good boy,’ my father said. ‘He is grateful to you for this work in the tool shop.’
    ‘Yah,’ Hellman said. He didn’t sound as though he believed it. ‘What can he do? Does he know welding? Electrics? Hydraulics?’
    ‘He is a good learner, Señor Hellman. And very strong, as you see.’
    ‘Yah,’ Hellman said again. ‘Can he write?’
    ‘I can write,’ I said.
    ‘Good. Because the first thing you do is fill out this form.’ He took a sheet of yellow paper from the desk and gave it to me. I think he was surprised that I did not move my lips when I read it.
    A siren sounded from outside, and my father twitched. ‘Excuse me now, Señor Hellman,’ he said. ‘That is my call.’ He turned to me, and clearly there were several things he wanted to say to me. But all he said was, ‘I’ll see you later. Listen to what Señor Hellman tells you.’ Then he left.
    Hellman pulled a metal chair to the desk and gave me a pen. The radiophone crackled, and a voice like a robot’s said something. Hellman picked it up, pressed a button, and again thrust himself half out of the window and began shouting. I filled in the form and signed my name at the bottom. I felt that I had signed my own death warrant.
    The boss was still hanging out the window. I looked around the office and saw that the wall behind me was plastered in photographs of soccer players and teams.
    Hellman took me outside to a workbench and turned me over to a mechanic called Estevan. He was a small, very dark-skinned man, older than my father. He had a gold ring through the top part of his ear, and when he smiled — which was not often — he showed a gold front tooth. On his left hand there were just two fingers and a thumb.
    Hellman told Estevan, ‘This is your new boy. Let him watch what you do, okay? And answer his questions, no matter how stupid they are. Maybe give him some simple thing to do. His father says he’s a good learner.’
    Estevan looked at me but spoke to Hellman. ‘This is a giant,’ he said. ‘You should give him a job pulling up trees by hand. I tell you what. Get some more of these boy giants, and I won’t have to spend so much time fixing these damn tractors.’
    ‘Yah, yah,’ Hellman said, almost smiling. He turned away toward the office, then turned back. ‘Another thing, Estevan. Don’t give this kid any of that cheap stinking brandy you think I don’t know you got in your back pocket, okay? He would maybe like to keep both his hands.’
    Yes,
I thought.
I would like to keep both my hands.
”
    “It was a long day, that first day. It is hard to ask sensible questions about how a man does things when you have no idea what he is doing in the first place. Estevan was working on what he called a