My Dad Makes Us “Vote” On Who Gets To Sleep In A Bed Or A Dirt Pit. My Brother Just Betrayed Us To Save Himself. How Do I Escape?

The rest of the school day passes in a blur of exhaustion and planning. I keep thinking about Miss McCann, how she’s always been kind when I’ve fallen asleep in her class.

I think about the way she looks at me sometimes, like she knows something is wrong. If I can just get her to really listen, maybe she’ll help us.

I practice the words in my head during every class, trying to figure out how to explain the shed and pit without sounding crazy or dramatic. It has to sound believable, factual, like I’m reporting something that happened rather than making up stories for attention.

By the time the final bell rings, I’ve rehearsed it 20 times, and the words almost sound normal instead of completely insane. After school I go to the library instead of heading straight home.

I find a computer in the back corner where nobody can see my screen. I create a new email account with a random username that has nothing to do with my real name.

Then I upload all the photos and audio files to a hidden folder in the cloud. It takes forever because the library Wi-Fi is slow and I keep checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody is watching.

Once everything is uploaded, I delete the files from my phone’s camera roll and recent items. I go through every folder twice to make sure Dad won’t find anything if he checks.

The hidden cloud folder is password protected, and the password is something Dad would never guess. It’s a line from a book Yasmin used to read before she got too sick to care about stories.

I get home right before dinner, and Dad is already at the table with his clipboard. He has that sick smile on his face like he’s about to host a game show.

Mom is setting out plates with mechanical movements, her face blank and empty. Yasmin sits hunched in her chair coughing into her elbow, and Yousef is watching everyone with calculating eyes.

I slide into my seat and immediately lean toward Yousef, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. I tell him I’ll rank him high tonight if he helps keep Yasmin off the bottom, promising him the couch if he ranks Mom second to last.

His eyes narrow as he considers the deal, weighing the benefits against the risks. Dad’s gaze shifts toward us, and I can see him noticing the whispered conversation.

Yousef gives me a tiny nod of agreement. When the voting starts, I rank Yousef second and myself last, and Yousef follows through on our deal.

The final results give Yasmin the couch, Yousef the sleeping bag in the basement, Mom the shed, and me the garage. It feels like a victory for about 30 seconds until I notice Dad making notes on his clipboard.

He has that cold calculating expression he gets when he’s planning something new. After dinner Dad stands up and announces a new rule in his calm reasonable voice.

He explains that any collusion or vote trading will result in automatic pit placement for both parties involved, effective immediately. His eyes are locked on me and Yousef as he speaks.

My stomach drops as I realize he saw everything, our whispered deal, the coordinated votes, all of it. He’s always one step ahead, always finding new ways to isolate us from each other and prevent any kind of alliance.

My small victory turns to ashes in my mouth as I understand that protecting Yasmin just got infinitely harder. Yousef won’t risk helping me again now that Dad has made it a punishable offense.

I’ll be on my own trying to keep her safe. That night I lie on the yoga mat in the garage staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the house settling.

The concrete floor is cold through the thin mat, and my back already hurts from the hard surface. I think about Yasmin getting weaker every day, Mom giving up completely, and Yousef turning into a monster just to survive.

If I don’t speak up now, someone is going to die in that pit. Maybe Yasmin from another bout of pneumonia, maybe Mom from the cold and starvation, maybe even me if Dad decides to make an example.

I have to risk outside help no matter what Dad does to punish me. Living with the guilt of staying silent would be worse than any night in the pit.

The next morning at the school Miss McCann pulls me aside after I turn in an essay that I can barely remember writing. The words on the page are a mess, sentences trailing off mid-thought and paragraphs that don’t connect to each other.

She holds the paper carefully and asks if everything is okay at home, her voice gentle and concerned. I want to tell her everything right there in the hallway.

I want to describe the pit and the shed and the nightly rankings, but the words stick in my throat like they’re glued there. Instead I just say things are complicated and stressful, giving her enough to worry about without fully explaining.

She studies my face for a long moment, and I can see real concern in her eyes. It is not just teacher concern, but actual worry about my safety.

She doesn’t push for more details but asks if I’d be willing to talk more after class tomorrow. I agree immediately because I need an ally, even though I’m terrified of what Dad will do if he finds out I’ve been talking to teachers.

Miss McCann writes her email address on a piece of paper and tells me I can reach out anytime, even on weekends. Something about her quiet kindness makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.

That afternoon I’m in the kitchen doing homework when the phone rings and Dad answers it in the living room. I can hear his voice shift into that pleasant concerned father tone he uses with outsiders.

He is thanking someone for caring and promising to make sure I get more rest. When he hangs up, he walks into the kitchen and just stares at me.

His expression is cold and full of barely contained rage. I don’t have to ask who called because I already know it was Miss McCann expressing concern about my academic performance and general well-being.

Dad doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with those calculating eyes while I pretend to focus on my homework. I know what that look means.

Tonight’s ranking is going to be bad. Whatever protection I thought I’d built by documenting evidence just became worthless in the face of Dad’s immediate retaliation.

The Sound of the Rain

At dinner Dad sits at the head of the table with his clipboard, but this time he doesn’t even bother with the normal ranking ceremony. He just announces that I’m being moved to the garage as a pre-penalty for involving teachers in family business.

This means I don’t get to participate in rankings anymore. His voice is calm and reasonable, like he’s explaining a simple consequence for bad behavior instead of punishing me for trying to get help.

He talks about how teachers need to stay out of family matters and how my poor judgment has forced him to take protective measures. Yousef smirks from across the table, clearly happy that someone else is getting punished and that he’s safe for tonight.

Mom won’t meet my eyes, just stares at her plate while Dad explains the new arrangement. I realize this is exactly what happens when you try to reach out.

You get punished while everyone else stays quiet to protect themselves from becoming the next target. The garage floor is cold concrete with just a thin yoga mat.

I know I’ll be there for days or maybe weeks depending on how long Dad decides to drag this out. After dinner I gather my sleeping bag and pillow, walking past my siblings without saying anything.

There’s nothing to say anymore. Yousef heads to the couch looking satisfied, Mom shuffles toward the shed with her usual defeated expression, and Yasmin coughs her way to the basement.

Dad watches me walk to the garage with this small smile, like he’s won something important by isolating me further from any chance of outside help. That night I lie awake on the yoga mat, the cold seeping through the thin material and into my back.

Around 2:00 a.m. I hear coughing coming from the backyard, wet and painful. It is probably Yasmin in the shed struggling to breathe.

Then there’s this metallic banging sound like someone shifting around trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. I press my ear against the garage wall, but I can’t tell if it’s Mom in the pit or just the shed settling in the cold next door.

Our neighbor Fergus stands at his fence in his bathrobe listening to the sounds of suffering coming from our property. He’s an older man who lives alone and keeps odd hours, and I’ve seen him out in his yard late at night before.

The coughing gets worse for a few minutes, then quieter, then starts again. The banging continues on and off, irregular and desperate.