I was ten years old.

  The market day sun beat down on the dirt road, and I had three copper coins in my pocket—everything Mother had managed to scrape together that week. I was supposed to buy bread. Maybe some cheese if the baker's wife was feeling generous.

  I kept my head down as I walked, trying to be invisible. Trying not to be noticed.

  That's when I saw them.

  The S-Boys.

  Three of them, leaning against the wall of the shearing shed that gave them their name—Shearers, though everyone just called them S-Boys. They worked for Mr. Bck Sheep, the biggest drug dealer in our part of town. Even at ten, I knew what they did. Everyone knew.

  The tall one—Cormac—spotted me first.

  "Hey, Jackie boy!" He pushed off the wall, his smile wide and mean. "Where you heading?"

  I tried to keep walking. "Market."

  "Market." He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. The other two—Finn and Derrick—fnked me on either side. "You know, we've been talking about you, Jackie. Smart kid like you, you could make real money with us."

  "I'm not interested."

  "Not interested." Cormac ughed. "You hear that? Little Jackie's not interested in feeding his whore mother."

  My hands balled into fists. "Don't talk about her."

  "Or what?" Finn moved closer, and I could smell the dust on him—that sickly-sweet scent of Mr. Bck Sheep's product. "You gonna do something about it?"

  I should have run. I knew I should have run.

  But I was ten and stupid and angry, and I said: "My mother doesn't want me working with people like you. She doesn't want me becoming an S-Boy."

  Cormac's smile disappeared.

  "Is that so?" His voice went ft. "You think you're better than us, Jackie?"

  "I didn't say that—"

  The first punch caught me in the stomach, driving all the air from my lungs. I doubled over, and then they were on me.

  Three of them.

  I tried to fight back. Got one good hit on Derrick's jaw before Finn grabbed my arms and Cormac started ying into me. Fists in my ribs, my face, my back. I tasted blood.

  When I hit the ground, the kicks started.

  I curled into a ball, trying to protect my head. Trying to breathe. Trying not to cry because crying would make it worse.

  "This is what you get, Jackie boy," Cormac said, and I felt his hand in my pocket, taking my three copper coins. "A lesson."

  The kicks stopped. I y there in the dirt, every part of me screaming with pain.

  Then something hit my back. Small, hard objects bouncing off me and scattering across the ground.

  Beans.

  "Here," Cormac said, his voice full of contempt. "Since you're not even worth thinking about. These are for you and your whore mother."

  The other two ughed—harsh, cruel sounds that echoed in my ringing ears.

  Then they were gone.

  Eventually, I managed to push myself up onto my hands and knees. The beans were everywhere—scattered in the dirt, caught in the folds of my shirt, stuck to the blood on my skin. I didn't bother picking them up. Just stumbled to my feet and started walking.

  Home.

  Mother looked up when I stumbled through the doorway, and her face went white.

  "Jackie—oh gods, Jackie—"

  She was beside me in an instant, her hands hovering over me like she was afraid to touch me.

  "What happened? Who did this?"

  "S-Boys," I managed. My lip was split, and talking hurt. "They took the money."

  "Fuck the money." Her voice was fierce, but her hands were shaking. "Sit down. Just—just sit down, baby."

  She helped me to the mattress—the only one we had, the one we shared. I y down on my back, and the world kept spinning.

  Mother paced, thinking, calcuting. Fear. Anger. Desperation crossing her face.

  Finally, she stopped.

  "I'm going to get help," she said.

  "We can't afford—"

  "I'll handle it." Her voice was hard. Final. "You just rest. I'll be back."

  She left.

  I y there, drifting in and out, pain pulling me under. I didn't know how much time passed before I heard voices outside.

  Mother's voice. And another—deeper, colder, a woman's voice.

  "—only need you to patch him up," Mother was saying. "Please. He's just a boy."

  "I don't work for free." The other voice was ft, emotionless. "And I don't particurly like males."

  "I know." Mother's voice dropped lower, but there was no shame in it. Matter-of-fact. "I know what you want. And I'm good at it. Very good. I'll make sure you're satisfied."

  A pause. Then Mistress Gothel's voice, curious: "Confident, aren't you?"

  "I know what I have," Mother said simply. "And I know how to use it. You help my son, I'll make it worth your while. I promise you that."

  Another pause.

  "Every visit," Mistress Gothel finally said. "Until the boy is healed. And you'd better be as good as you cim."

  "I am."

  They came inside.

  The woman was tall, dark-haired, severe-looking. The vilge herbal dy. She barely gnced at me before kneeling beside the mattress, her hands moving over my injuries with professional detachment.

  She worked in silence, pressing and prodding, making me hiss with pain. She pulled out jars and pouches, mixing things, applying salves that burned and soothed.

  "Ribs are bruised, not broken," she said finally. "The face will heal. He'll be fine in a week if he rests."

  "Thank you," Mother said, genuine gratitude in her voice. "Thank you for helping him."

  Mistress Gothel stood, wiping her hands. "I'll be back tomorrow to change the dressings."

  Then she looked at Mother, and something shifted in her expression. Anticipation.

  Mother met her gaze steadily. "Turn over, Jackie," she said to me, her voice gentle. "Face the wall, baby. Try to sleep."

  I did as I was told, turning onto my side, my back to the room. The wall was rough stone, close enough to touch.

  The mattress dipped as they both settled onto it.

  "Just rex," Mother said, her voice low and confident. "Let me take care of you. You're helping my son—I want you to feel good. Really good."

  Mistress Gothel's breath caught. "We'll see if you're worth the—oh—"

  Her words cut off into a gasp.

  I closed my eyes tight, pressing my face toward the wall.

  "Goddess," Mistress Gothel breathed, her voice different now—surprised, almost vulnerable. "You weren't lying."

  I heard wet sounds, rhythmic movements, Mistress Gothel's breathing getting faster.

  "Right there," Mistress Gothel gasped. "Yes—exactly like that—don't stop—"

  Mother was good at this. I could hear it in the way Mistress Gothel's voice kept breaking. Mother knew exactly what she was doing, making sure Mistress Gothel got exactly what she wanted.

  "Fuck," Mistress Gothel moaned, louder now. She didn't care that I was there. "You're incredible—I've never—oh gods—"

  The mattress shook. I pressed myself as close to the wall as I could.

  "More," Mistress Gothel demanded, her voice ragged. "You're wonderful—"

  Mistress Gothel's voice climbed higher, more desperate, until finally she broke into a cry that seemed to go on forever, her whole body shaking hard enough that I felt it through the mattress.

  Then silence. Heavy breathing.

  "You..." Mistress Gothel's voice was shaky, satisfied, almost disbelieving. "You really are that good."

  "I told you," Mother said quietly. No pride, no shame. Just fact.

  "Tomorrow," Mistress Gothel said, eagerness in her voice now. "Same time."

  "We will be here."

  The door closed behind her.

  The mattress shifted as Mother y down beside me. Her hand on my shoulder—gentle, careful.

  "I'm sorry you had to hear that, baby," she whispered. "But she's helping you. She's making you better. So I'm going to make sure she gets what she wants. That's fair, isn't it?"

  I didn't answer. Didn't turn around. Just kept my eyes closed and my face to the wall.

  This was the price. This was what it cost to keep me alive.

  Mistress Gothel came back every day for a week.

  Each time, she checked my wounds professionally. But there was something else now—anticipation. She looked at Mother differently.

  And each time, I turned to face the wall.

  Mistress Gothel never tried to be quiet. She moaned and gasped and cried out freely, sometimes even saying "No one's ever—goddess, you're so good at this—"

  And Mother made sure of it. Made sure Mistress Gothel left satisfied every single time.

  By the seventh day, I could move without wanting to scream.

  And each day, I learned:

  *Everything costs something.*

  *Everything has a price.*

  *And someone always has to pay it.*

  But also: *If you have to pay, you might as well have something worth the trade.*

  On the eighth day, Mother told me to wash my clothes—the ones I'd been wearing when the S-Boys beat me. Stiff with dried blood, stuffed in the corner.

  I took them outside to the washing barrel, dunked them in the water, started scrubbing.

  The beans fell out.

  I'd forgotten about them. They scattered on the ground around the barrel, and I stared at them.

  *These are for you and your whore of a mother.*

  I left them there. Didn't pick them up. Just hung my clothes to dry and went back inside.

  By morning, the beanstalk had started growing.

  ---

  Jack woke up.

  The room was dark, early dawn light just beginning to creep through the curtains. Jack's heart was pounding, his breath coming fast, the echo of the dream still clinging to him.

  Gretel's arms were around him, her body warm against his back, her face pressed between his shoulder bdes.

  "You had the dream again," she murmured.

  Jack exhaled slowly. "Yeah."

  "I'm sorry, baby." She kissed his shoulder bde.

  Jack turned over to face her. Even in the dim light, he could see her eyes—clear, focused. Looking at him like he mattered.

  "Your mother was in it?" she asked quietly.

  "Yeah."

  Jack tried to smile, py it off. "It's fine. Ancient history."

  Gretel saw right through him. She always did.

  "Look at it this way," she said, fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "If it wasn't for them—the S-Boys, the beating—you never would have gotten those magic beans."

  Jack huffed a soft ugh. "True. When Mother made me clean out my clothes, wash the blood out—they fell onto the ground. That's how the beanstalk happened."

  "Exactly." Gretel shifted closer. "So in a way, they gave you everything."

  "Yeah," Jack said. "But I still didn't deserve that beating."

  "No, you didn't." Her voice was firm. "You were ten years old. You didn't deserve any of it."

  Jack looked at her, this woman who understood things about him he'd never told anyone. Who knew about the dream because she'd held him through it enough times.

  "Hey," Jack said, trying to lighten the mood. "If we sat around wishing about what's right and wrong, we'd be sitting here forever."

  Gretel smiled—sad, knowing—and kissed him.

  When she pulled back, she whispered, "I love you."

  The words hung in the air between them.

  It was awkward. It shouldn't have been, but it was. Because Jack didn't know if what he felt for her was love or just need. Didn't know if she loved him or just loved what he gave her—the drug, the purpose, the life.

  But in that moment, Jack didn't care.

  "I know," Jack said, and kissed her again.