Free Whisper by Chris Struyk-Bonn

chain around my ankle. The metal fell away, leaving a red indentation in my skin. I fought the urge to bend and rub my leg. He pulled the ratty blanket off me, tossing it back into the doghouse. When I tried to walk, I wobbled, my ankle threatening to give out, but somehow I made it to the front steps, using the railing to pull myself up, and then limped through the front door. Belen walked behind me.
    The smell in the house pulled on my memories and made me sway. It was my mother, everywhere. Molasses, cinnamon and lemon. I thought for a minute that I might throw up. I held my stomach and breathed deeply, then stumbled farther into the house when I was pushed.
    Mateo and David sat at the kitchen table. They both had plates in front of them, ready to receive food. A third place was set at the table, but I knew better than to think it might be for me. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten.
    â€œEggs and bacon in the fridge. Only six people in this town with a stove and fridge, you know. We’re out of bread,” Belen said.
    David sucked in his breath. Bread meant a mother—a mother lost and gone. They’d lost a mother too, whom they’d known much better than I had. I knew nothing of Belen that endeared him to me, but my mother had stayed with him, maybe even loved him, and had loved her two boys. When I heard both boys sniff and watched them wipe the backs of their hands under their noses, I knew they’d loved her too.
    I grasped the metal handle and opened the refrigerator. The gush of cold air against my arms, face and neck shocked me, making me think of fresh morning breezes by the creek, where rancid smells didn’t clog the senses. In the summer, we had eaten nothing cold—not the goat’s milk or the mangoes. Everything we’d eaten was as warm as the day, but here, the milk stayed cold and didn’t curdle in the heat.
    Eggs, bacon, milk. I removed these items from the refrigerator after searching for their unfamiliar packaging and turned to the stove. If I was able to cook these things over an open flame, I could certainly cook them on this luxurious device. Nathanael had told me that stoves cooked food so evenly, you didn’t have to continuously move the pot to the best spot.
    Belen stood beside me and pointed to knobs and corresponding spirals. On the back of the white stove, in black script, was the word SWINC. It was on the refrigerator too, dark letters against a white background, just like the lettering on the rumbling truck.
    â€œDon’t think you’re staying in the house just because you’re cooking and cleaning in it. You’ll go back to the doghouse tonight.”
    I looked down at the pan on the stove. The eggs bubbled gently, the bacon sizzled, and I felt stirring in my chest, as if ants or fleas had crept into my clothing and started to bite. The nibbles fluttered beneath my collarbone, twitched in my cheeks. My face burned and my breath came fast. I flipped the eggs, turned the bacon, opened the cap on the milk. My hands were shaking.
    I refused to return to the doghouse—to be chained and kept. That would not happen. I was so angry, I couldn’t even cry.
    I flipped the food onto their plates and watched them shovel great forkfuls into their mouths. I felt my lips tighten over my teeth. I glowered at them—hungry, angry, imprisoned—trying to control the moisture that threatened to drip from the corners of my mouth.
    â€œStop staring at us,” Belen said. He put his fork down. “I can’t eat with you watching and with that face…”
    He stood up, pushed his chair back from the table and marched into another room. David had stopped eating and was watching me. Mateo didn’t bother to look up. Belen walked back into the room, the floorboards shaking with his weight, and tossed something over my head.
    â€œYou’ll wear that from now on.” Belen sat back at the table and focused his eyes on