Rosie was so engrossed in her work that she never saw the half fisted hand swinging towards her, she only felt it after the fact. Pain blossomed red and hot across her right cheek, vibrating up towards her temple in short, stabbing jabs. The blow should have knocked her right off her feet, but she had been drawing water from the well and her feet had been planted just far enough apart that she staggered back a step and managed to keep her balance.

          It had been a mighty blow for sure, but Rosie didn't cry, she didn't flinch, or raise her hand to touch the swollen flesh. She had learned long ago that such actions only made them want to hurt you more.

          Save for the brief widening of her eyes, there was no other indication that the slap had caught her off guard. Turning from her task, Rosie squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as though saying "Go ahead, hit me again."

          Her body trembled, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She wanted to hit him back, but knew better than to purposely antagonize the man who seemed to tower over her like a giant.

          For a long moment the only movement was the hem of her threadbare dress as a hot, rough wind whipped it around her knees and thighs.

          It was too short, that dress, but it was better than going naked so Rosie made due.

          "What did you do that for?" Rosie asked at last, a throbbing jolt lancing through her jaw with each word.

          The man behind the fist, Mr. Eugene Hayes, stared hard at her for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped towards the expanse of dust streaked skin where the hem of her dress should have reached to her knees, and then to where it actually fell several inches higher up her legs.

          It made Rosie feel uncomfortably exposed and her hands moved around to her front, her fingers uncurling from fists as she grasped at the tattered hem to keep it from fluttering about..

          "What I tell you 'bout walkin' 'round dressed like that?" he demanded, his tongue sweeping out over his dry, cracked, pink lips, his eyes staying low. Rosie grimaced, her nails pressing through the thin, weathered cotton and biting hard into the palms of her hands which had grown slick with sweat.

          "It's the only-"

          Hayes made to lift his hand again causing Rosie to stop short in her protests. Though she appeared calm on the outside, her heart was skipping staccato in her chest. He took half a step closer and despite the sweltering heat of the day, Rosie felt the hairs on her arm stand on end as a cold chill swept over her. She wasn't sure which scared her more, the hand poised and ready to strike or the darkness lurking deep in his hard blue eyes.

          It didn't matter because she resolved in that moment to run if he took another step closer. She didn't care about the consequences, nor about the fact that despite his bulk, Mr. Hayes was quick on his feet, his long legs capable of eating up whatever distance she might put between them.

          Oh, he'd catch her for sure, and she'd pay for running, but attempting to escape was better than standing there doing nothing.

          Rosie waited, sweat forming in tiny beads across her forehead and the back of her neck. Mr. Hayes watched, his eyes calculating. It was almost as if he could read her mind, as if he knew the moment he took action, so would she. His gaze flickered upwards, focusing on something past her shoulder, and Rosie knew he was assessing her chances of success.

          She knew the only thing behind her were empty fields and the barn.

          If she made it to the barn and up into the loft, she'd be safe. As much as Mr. Hayes loved to beat on little kids, he was not without fears of his own.

          Mr. Hayes hated high places, and he hated the loft the most.

          As if they had come to the realization at the same time, Mr. Hayes shifted his narrowing gaze back towards her. Rosie felt panic trying to claw its way to the surface. She fought the feeling, pushing it back down, unwilling to let it take control.

          "Now you c'here, girl, don't you make me come get you," Mr. Hayes said at last, his foot shifting forward, the worn soles of his boots scraping harshly against the packed earth. The sound was deafening, as though a gunshot had been fired, the sort of shot that signaled the start of the Kentucky Derby.

          It was all Rosie needed to hear.

          Like the horses, Rosie sprang into action, narrowly avoiding the sweeping paw of Mr. Hayes as he lunged for her half a second later.

          She heard him curse and shout after her, but Rosie didn't look back, she didn't want the fear of knowing how close he was to slow her down.

          After several seconds, the sound of her heavy breathing and pounding heart were all Rosie could hear.

          The barn was all she could see.

          The dominating structure, dilapidated due to years of neglect, leaning severely to one side and looking as though one strong wind might blow it over, would be her refuge.

          As she drew closer, ignoring the rocks and sticks digging into the calloused soles of her bare feet, a new sound washed over her. It was the sound of approaching doom and came in the form of heavy footfalls slamming violently into hard earth. It chased her like roaring thunder, settling deep in her bones as it shook her to the core.

          Her heel caught a jagged stone.

          A cry of pain and outrage lodged itself in her throat which had squeezed tight with the fear she refused to acknowledge.

          She stumbled once, twice, three times, and then -- she fell.

          It was as though the entire world stopped moving and Rosie simply waited.

          She waited for the thunderous wave to crash into her, for those hands to grab hold, for the shaking, for the shouting, for the pain.

          She had tried, by God she had tried, and no one could fault her for failing.

          It wasn't like this was the first time, nor would it be the last.

          A shadow fell over her but she didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the owner.

          Hands pulled at her arms, at her shoulders, at her dress, but they weren't angry, violent pulls, they were frantic, desperate pulls.

          "Get up!" a voice shouted in her ear. "Come on, Rosie, get up!"

          Oliver.

          Rosie did as he asked, staggering gracelessly to her feet while he propelled them forward. With her hand clasped tightly in his, Rosie followed behind at a run. Her feet were aching, her face was throbbing, and her lungs were screaming, all of made the stitch forming in her side feel like an annoying tickle, but she didn't let it slow her down.

          The barn doors hung open, barely held upright on rusted hinges clinging to a rotting wooden door frame. The darkness within beckoned them like a warm embrace, engulfing them as they passed beneath the archway, masking them, if only temporarily, from the dangerous of the outside world.

          Reaching the ladder, Oliver pushed Rosie up first and followed closely at her heels. They'd reached the loft just as their sanctuary was invaded by an endless stream of profanities. Rosie scurried away from the edge, fearful that Mr. Hayes might forget his fear in his anger and get halfway up the ladder before he remembered.

          Oliver followed, keeping his body low as they melted into the darkness.

          Mr. Hayes continued his rampage through the barn, knocking over stacks of rusted tin pails and tearing rotted wooden beams from stalls that had not seen occupants in over a year.

          From her position in the back of the loft, Rosie watched as Mr. Hayes circled the base of the ladder, raking his thick fingers through long, lanky strands of dirty blond hair. He reminded her of a starving dog circling a wounded animal it hoped to drag off and eat for dinner.

          He stopped and contemplated the ladder a moment.

          Rosie held her breath and Oliver's arm, which was looped protectively around her shoulders, offered a reassuring squeeze.

          "I'ma give you one last chance, girl," Mr. Hayes called up. "You come down here and apologize and take your whoopin' and I'll forget that ya ran and that Ward boy done interfere in business that ain't his."

          Oliver's arm tightened and Rosie looked up towards his face which seemed to be floating in the darkness. She could only make out vague shapes, outlines really, but she imagined he was frowning, not at all pleased with the proposition presented by Mr. Hayes. Oliver could be so foolish sometimes, most times actually, but he was the closest thing Rosie had to a friend in this place.

          "Maybe..."

          Oliver shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

          Rosie fell silent, turning her attention back towards the top of Mr. Hayes' head as he continued to roam around the ground level of the barn.

          There was no doubt the older man was agitated and if he hadn't been in a foul mood before, he certainly was in one now. He waited a few moments longer and then reached for the ladder.

          Rosie felt her heart go still and she felt Oliver stiffen beside her.

          It was strangely satisfying knowing that Oliver was worried as well. Even in the darkest of moments he always acted like everything was going to be alright. It frustrated Rosie to no end and often made her question whether or not he was actually human and not some sort of space alien.

          Mr. Hayes did not climb the ladder as they both feared he might. Instead he pulled on it until he came free of the loft with a dry, splintering crack that sent a cloud of dust and debris raining down onto the barn floor. He let it fall where it would and stared up towards their hiding place, a satisfied smirk plastered across his sunburned face.

          "You can rot up there then," he declared with such immense satisfaction one would have thought he won a prize for ingenuity. He dusted the palms of his hands off on his dirty overalls before stalking out of the barn and disappearing from view.

          Several minutes slipped by before Rosie finally broke the silence. She pulled free of Oliver's arm and he made no effort to stop her. She crawled towards the edge of the loft, the beams and floor boards creaking in protest to her slight weight. Rosie wasn't worried about falling through but she was still cautious. Seeing the ladder laying on the floor some fifteen feet below, Rosie sighed.

          "What do we do now?" Rosie asked, hating the desperation that laced her words. Oliver crawled over slowly to take a look.

          "We're certainly not gonna rot," he said with a casual shrug. "It doesn't look so far, I can drop down and pick up the ladder."

          "What? Ollie, no," Rosie protested. She started to reach out but stopped herself. What did she care if he wanted to risk breaking his leg, or worse, jumping down? Her words did give him pause and he watched her expectantly.

          "I just mean, there's no need to do it now," Rosie replied. "For all we know he's waitin' outside the barn..."

          Oliver quirked a brow but did not question her response.

          "Maybe," he said, laying back against the hay and folding his arms behind his head as a makeshift pillow. "What got the old man all worked up anyway?"

          Rosie sat on the edge of the platform so that her legs and feet could swing freely into the empty space. "My clothes," she said at last, noting with mild disgust the way the hem rode up exposing her thighs. "Like I have any choice but to wear it. It's not like they give us anything else, it's the only thing I got."

          "It doesn't gotta be this way," Oliver said after a moment.

          "Huh?" Rosie looked back at him, at the wistful expression on his face, and then groaned.

          Not this again.

          "Oliver-"

          "Think about it," Oliver continued, ignoring her as he pushed himself upright and crossed his legs. "It's only a fifteen mile walk to the tracks. It we leave at midnight, we'll make it before the six o'clock train comes through."

          "Then what, Oliver?" Rosie insisted making no effort to mask her irritation. He always did this whenever they were alone together. He started talking about jumping on trains, or stowing away on ships, of leaving.

          "I don't know, whatever we want," Oliver replied, his excitement was palpable and Rosie's sour attitude was doing little to deter him. "That's the adventure, Rosie, that's the whole point."

          At moments like these Rosie wished she could be more like Oliver, more daring and more optimistic. Try as she might to convince herself he might be right, Rosie just couldn't get past all the pitfalls of his many schemes.

           "No, the point is that without money and a plan, we'll just end up starving to death, or worse, getting caught and sent back," Rosie said at last. She was trying her best to be patient with him, but it was proving to be a difficult task. "Can you imagine how Hayes will treat us if we run away and have to get brought back?"

          "We won't get caught," Oliver protested. "Rosie, I promise we won't get caught."

         "No, Oliver, you can't make promises like that," Rosie protested. "You just can't. No one can."