Chapter 1: The Woman He Stole

My father always said a real man needed a son, so one summer, he disappeared into the Blue Ridge and came back dragging a wild woman behind him.

The woman he stole gave birth to three children, but none were sons—just my sisters and me.

Furious, my father smashed her legs with a crowbar.

He locked her in a cabin on the island in the lake behind our house, then hammered up a crooked plywood sign on the dock, letters dripping red: $5 A NIGHT—NO QUESTIONS.

It didn’t take long for word to spread. Men from town and all over the county came, their trucks rattling down the gravel road, eager for a night with the mountain woman.

The mountain woman fell sick from exhaustion. Old Doc Henderson said if she didn’t get medicine, she’d be dead in three days.

My father didn’t want to spend a dime, so he shoved Doc Henderson off the porch. Doc Henderson tumbled down the splintered steps, his black bag popping open and pill bottles rolling into the crabgrass.

That evening, my father stomped from house to house, banging on screen doors, hollering:

"One dollar a turn, boys—cheapest you’ll ever find! Last chance!"

The men stuffed crumpled bills into their pockets and hurried across the wooden bridge to the cabin, boots pounding on the planks.

The mountain woman tried to run, her bare feet slipping on the rough floorboards. My father and the men chained her limbs with heavy hardware-store chains, pinning her to the stained mattress. The cabin reeked of sweat and spilled whiskey, the mattress a patchwork of old stains and cigarette burns.

They let the men take what they wanted.

My father watched, spitting curses through tobacco-stained teeth:

"You beast! I dragged you out of the mountains to give me sons! Three useless girls! And you still dare fight me!"

The woman could only cry out, "ah ah," her voice cracking, unable to speak our language. Her wailing echoed over the lake all night, until by morning, she fell silent.

By the next day, she had no breath left.

The men staggered out, buckling belts and cursing, angry she’d died too soon—felt cheated out of their money.

My father tossed her body into the water with a splash. Then he turned to us three sisters on the shore, counting greasy bills and stroking his stubbled chin.

He looked right at me and said:

"Emily, aren’t you thirteen this year? Old enough by my count."

My heart rattled in my chest. I stared at my dirt-caked sneakers, wishing I could shrink small enough to slip between the dock boards. My hands shook at my sides.

I knew exactly what my father meant.