“Five dollars,” the auctioneer coaxed. “Surely I hear five.”
Still nothing.
Then a voice from the back, thick with mockery: “Two dollars!”
The crowd erupted with a laugh that tasted like spit.
Abigail’s cheeks burned. She tasted blood where she’d bitten the inside of her mouth without noticing.
“Two dollars!” the auctioneer crowed, delighted. “Do I hear three?”
Another voice tossed in, lazy and cruel: “Two-fifty if she throws in cookin’ lessons.”
Someone else: “I’ll take the boy first. Woman can wait.”
Something in Abigail’s chest surged up so fast it became sound before she could swallow it.
“No.”
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