What the hell is this place? “They got pumice stones?” I ask, peering up at her with one open eye.
She nods enthusiastically.
I throw back the covers. It’s been too long since my ugly-ass feet got some attention. My toenails need clipping and my heels are cracking, they’re so dry.
I grab towels and clothes from my closet and follow Sarah from the room. Someone else had the same idea and is using the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Sarah gestures for me to use the one closest to our room, and she hurries to the one in the middle.
She wasn’t lying. Oh my God—the stuff in this bathroom! There’s a basket of masks on the counter, the kind that have three or four applications in them. I pick a moisturizing and toning one. There’s a note that says to check under the sink for shampoos and body lotions. I can’t believe it when I open the cabinet.
“Jesus,” I whisper. There are tons of small bottles of high-end stuff. I grab shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a pumice sponge wrapped in plastic, and stand with my hands full. That’s when I see the baskets on the stand above the toilet. They have names on them—mine is empty—but the others are full of different items.
I start the shower and clip my toenails with clippers I find in a small bottle of disinfectant. After getting clean, I wrap my hair in a towel, dry off, and dress, putting all the items I used, including a new razor, in my basket and setting it on the shelf. I put my towels in the laundry and return to our room. Sarah is already there, making her bed. She takes one look at me in my leggings and sweater and smiles. “You look like your aunt.”
I glance down at my clothes. “Yeah, not really my style, but they’re comfortable.”
“Make your bed and you can come with me to help feed the horses.”
Do I look like someone who wants to feed horses? I must, because I make my bed as fast and neat as I can and follow after her.
Downstairs, breakfast is cooking. My stomach growls at the smell of bacon and coffee as I pull on my coat and boots. I tug a cap over my damp hair and step out into the cold. There is a fine layer of snow on the ground, and our footsteps seem to echo in the quiet, the crunch of gravel sounding like a roar.
The stables aren’t far from the house. A couple of women are working there, carrying bales of hay and shoveling manure. One of them looks up as we approach. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks pink. She looks older than my mother.
“Good morning, Sarah!” she says. “And you must be Alexa.”
I hesitate. “How do you know my name?”
The woman smiles. “I’m Bev, dear. I help run this place. I’m supposed to know your name. You two are just in time to help feed the beasties, though I’m sure you know that.”
The last time I met a person whose eyes twinkled so much, he was done up on cocaine. Bev doesn’t seem high though. Just … happy.
She leads Sarah and me into the barn. It’s darker in there, the air slightly damp with horse breath, and smelling of shit. Horse crap doesn’t smell as bad as I thought it would. It’s almost sweet.
Sarah names the horses off to me, but I’m not listening. My gaze is locked on a huge, black monster at the far end of the stalls.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing.
Bev laughs. “That’s Joe, our Percheron.”
“Percheron,” I repeat. “Are they all that big?”
“That big and bigger,” she replies. “Would you like to meet him?”
I shake my head.
“He’s a big baby,” Sarah tells me. “Come on, you can give him a carrot.”
Hesitantly, I approach the giant horse. As we get closer, I notice the white blaze running down his nose and the shaggy fur—hair?—hanging over his forehead. His eyes are huge and dark when he looks at me.
“Here.” Sarah puts a chunk of the biggest carrot I’ve ever seen in my gloved hand. “Open your hand and offer it to him on your palm. That’s it. Open your fingers a little more. Now give it to him.”
I hold my breath. Joe’s giant head comes farther out of his stall. He snorts lightly, and the carrot is gone.
I stare at my empty palm. I didn’t even feel him take it.
“See?” Sarah says, grinning. “A baby.” She runs her bare hand along the horse’s jaw. “You can pet him. He likes it.”
I take off my glove and carefully set my hand on the side of Joe’s face. He’s soft, but not like a cat or dog. Solid muscle is right below the surface, and it moves and flexes as he chews the carrot. He turns toward me, sniffs my coat. Tastes it.
I laugh. The sound startles me.
Sarah offers Joe some oats and gives me a sympathetic look. “Pretty great, huh?”
I nod. I’m embarrassed, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a handful of oats from the bucket and feeding them to Joe when she’s done. This time, when he nuzzles me, I get closer. He rubs his muzzle against the side of my face. I smile.
Sarah shows me some of the other horses—all rescues or donations—but I go back to Joe before we have to return to the house for breakfast. Inside, we wash our hands in the small bathroom by the kitchen and join the others in the dining room. Breakfast is set up buffet style. We get to take what we want, and there’s so much to choose from!
So far, I’m enjoying rehab.
I load my plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. I even take an orange. The only place at the long table left open is next to Lonnie and another girl whose name I don’t remember. I sit down. Lonnie smiles at me.
“Been to the barn?” she asks.
I nod. “Sarah took me to meet the horses.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“Joe.”
She looks surprised. “Yeah? A lot of girls find him scary when they first come here.”
“He didn’t scare me.” It’s not really a lie. He didn’t scare me for long.
“No. I’m not surprised.” She smiles. “I don’t think you’re scared of much.”
“What’s there to be scared of now?” I ask her.
“A lot,” she replies, her smile gone, and goes back to eating her eggs.
After breakfast, we’re funneled into the living room to watch a documentary on human trafficking. The girls I saw with the horses when I first arrived are sitting together. They look bored and defiant. I take a step.
“Sit with me,” Lonnie says.
I glance from her to the girls. I really want to be with them, the ones who look like they might explode at any second. But Lonnie just watches me with a faint smile, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in the chair next to her.
The documentary is about girls who were trafficked, and the case their mothers are building against Stall 313—the website they were trafficked on. Stall 313 is where Mitch posted his girls. Us. Me.
I squirm in my seat. I can’t get comfortable. This shit on the TV isn’t helping. Mothers crying, dead-eyed girls talking about what happened to them, lawyers promising justice.
Ain’t nobody promising justice for me, or for the girls sitting around me.
“Fry their asses,” says a girl close to me. “Make them motherfuckers pay.”
“Shut up,” says another. “You know they ain’t gonna pay shit. Bunch of old white guys are gonna buy their way out.”