Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Take the pickup,” Adam said, turning and tapping his cane on the dirt path that Sam had brushed free of tiny pebbles and debris that morning so the old fool didn’t trip and smash his head open.
“These paths need to be paved,” Sam noted.
Adam waved his hand behind him, dismissing Sam’s words. “I like the feel of dirt under my feet. And I expect someone will help me if I injure my foot on a rock.”
Sam scratched the back of his neck. “Why would you expect anything when so many people let you down?” Lie to you. Cheat you. Steal your things.
Adam’s smile only widened. “People do let me down a lot,” he said. “But sometimes they don’t.”
Sam sighed. Sometimes didn’t seem like something to stand around grinning about. He shrugged and looked over at the red pickup near the fence next to the long driveway that let out on the main road. Sam didn’t want to drive. He didn’t want to go into New York City. He didn’t want to be around people and buildings and noise.
“Hey, Sam,” Adam said, turning around, his milky eyes strangely trained directly on him. “Who hurt you?”
Who hurt you? The question confused Sam. Especially because Adam couldn’t see all the scars that littered Sam’s skin. Maybe someone had told him about those. Maybe someone had seen him washing himself off under the faucet behind the barn and noticed that the scars weren’t only on his face and his arms but on his back and the biggest one of all trailing from his throat to his stomach. Still, those scars weren’t the reason he was alone. Shamed. Discarded. That had been his doing.
“Me,” Sam answered. “I hurt myself.”
Adam seemed to stare at him for several moments, finally nodding. The old man looked sad but also understanding. “That’s the worst kind of hurt.” The old man paused. “Do you think I’m lucky, Sam?”
Again, Sam was confused. “Lucky?”
“Yes. Do you see me as a lucky man?”
Sam stared at him. He was old and blind and relatively ugly too—though who was Sam to talk?—with bare, dirty feet and employees who regularly stole from him. But he owned an apple farm and sat around the dinner table while people laughed and talked. People who kissed him on his cheek when they stood up to leave. “Yes,” Sam answered. “I think you’re a lucky man.”
Adam nodded once. Then he unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, rolling them up slightly and holding the undersides of his wrists out to Sam. There were two long scars up the middle of each arm. “I agree,” Adam said solemnly. “I am a lucky man. But I didn’t always think so.” He dropped his arms. “Things are always changing, Sam. Life is moving all around us, even when it seems to be standing still. Have faith.” Then he turned, tapping his stick on the dirt again and heading toward his house.
Sam stood there for a moment, watching him walk away. Life is moving all around us. Sam had no idea what the old blind fool had meant. Maybe he was foolish and crazy too. Have faith. In what? That someday Sam might feel lucky too based on some circumstances he couldn’t picture or imagine? He’d had faith once, faith in the missions.
But did you? Did you really?
Maybe not if his current situation was any indication.
Sam went inside the small room in the back of the barn where Adam let him sleep. The other workers slept in a barracks-type room in a building closer to the orchard, but Adam, for some reason, had given him his own, with a door and a lock. Maybe the other men had told Adam they were worried the giant with the scars, white hair, and strange eyes who barely talked would murder them in their sleep.
Or worse.
Who knew better than he did that there were worse things than dying?
Sam sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered what he might have looked like without all the surgeries, physically altering medications, and other procedures that hadn’t been explained to him. He’d probably look normal. People probably wouldn’t stare at him with a mixture of fear and fascination.
But he wasn’t normal. And he never would be.
He picked up the razor on the small sink in the corner. Maybe he should use it to cut his wrists. He’d bleed out. It’d be a quick-ish death. He turned the razor over, considering it. It was pretty dull, but it’d still do the job if he pressed hard enough. He pictured the long scars on Adam’s arms. He pictured the old man’s face. He glanced down at the floor. If he did use the razor, then his blood would soak into the wood of the floorboards, and they’d probably have to be replaced, and what kind of way was that to thank Adam for giving him a job, a roof over his head, three meals a day, and all the apples he could eat?