And just like that, the name arrived and stuck to me like burrs.
The Fool’s Pit.
Dale repeated it, grinning as if he’d invented something clever enough to own. The others picked it up, passing it around the store like a shared chew of tobacco.
“The Fool’s Pit.”
“The Fool’s Pit.”
It felt like they’d branded my land and my labor and my father’s dream with a hot iron.
I gathered my browning apples. The basket suddenly felt too heavy for how little it held.
My boots scraped across the plank floor as I backed toward the door. The light outside was brutal, bright enough to make you squint even when you were trying not to cry.
At the threshold, I stopped.
Turned.
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