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?

Fergus stands there for almost 10 minutes just listening, his face troubled in the darkness. I can see him through the small garage window, his silhouette against his porch light.

He finally goes back inside, but he keeps looking back at our yard like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know what to do about it. Early the next morning, before Dad wakes up, I sneak out of the garage while it’s still dark outside.

My hands shake as I tear a page from my school notebook and write three words: “please help us,” along with our address.

The note is vague and desperate, but I’m running out of options. Fergus is the only neighbor close enough to hear what happens at night.

I fold the paper twice and creep across our yard to the fence line, then slip through the gap between the boards into Fergus’s property. His mailbox is by his front door, and I shove the note inside, then run back before anyone sees me.

I don’t know if he’ll do anything or just think I’m being dramatic, some kid making up stories for attention. I have to try something because Dad has cut off every other path to help.

Back in the garage I lie down and pretend to sleep, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. If Dad finds out I contacted Fergus, I don’t know what he’ll do, but it will definitely be worse than the garage.

That afternoon there’s a knock on our front door and Dad answers it with his usual charming smile. Fergus stands there holding a small package, making some excuse about how it was delivered to his house by mistake.

I hover in the hallway behind Dad, trying to make eye contact with Fergus without being obvious. They chat pleasantly about the weather, about how cold it’s been getting at night, about normal neighbor things.

Dad deflects every subtle question about the family with practiced ease, talking about how busy we all are with school and work. Fergus asks if everyone’s feeling okay since he heard some coughing last night.

Dad laughs it off, saying Yasmin has a little cold but nothing serious. I try to catch Fergus’s eye, but Dad shifts his position to block me from view, still smiling and making small talk.

Fergus looks frustrated and uncertain, like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how without being rude or intrusive. After a few more minutes he leaves with the package, glancing back at our house with this worried expression.

Dad closes the door and turns to look at me, his eyes cold and calculating. I know he suspects something even if he doesn’t have proof yet.

At the school Mrs. McCann sits at her desk after class filing paperwork, her face serious and concerned. She’s been thinking about me all day, about the exhaustion and the essay I wrote about feeling trapped.

She remembers my visible anxiety when she mentioned calling home. She opens the mandated reporter form on her computer and starts typing, listing specific observations that have worried her over the past few weeks.

She notes me falling asleep in class multiple times, flinching when touched, and having difficulty concentrating. She mentions references in my writing to sleeping in uncomfortable places.

She describes how I seem scared of going home, how I avoid talking about my family, and how I look thinner and more tired every day. It’s not proof of anything concrete, nothing she can point to and say this is definitely abuse.

But it’s enough to trigger an investigation, enough to get someone official to look at our family situation. She submits the report and sends a copy to the school counselor, then sits back feeling both relieved and worried about what might happen next.

Two days later a CPS social worker named Ammani Mendes schedules an unannounced home visit for the following afternoon. She doesn’t tell our family directly, just coordinates with Miss McCann to confirm the address and best time to find everyone home.

I don’t know this is happening yet, sitting in class trying to stay awake and wondering if my note to Fergus did anything. Miss McCann sends me an email during lunch saying she’s thinking of me and hopes things get better soon.

It feels like a tiny lifeline in the middle of drowning. I read it three times on the school library computer, looking for hidden meaning or promises she can’t actually make.

The words are simple and kind, and something about them makes my chest hurt because I’m not used to adults caring without wanting something in return. I delete the email immediately in case Dad checks the school system somehow, but I memorize the words first.

The next morning Dad seems different, tense and alert, like he senses something coming. Maybe he notices me acting different, or maybe he’s just paranoid after Fergus’s visit and Mrs. McCann’s phone call.

He spends the morning preparing, moving through the house with cold efficiency. He puts boards over the pit to make it look like a garden project, throwing some seed packets on top for decoration.

He goes to the shed and throws clean blankets over the dirty ones, arranging everything to look normal and temporary instead of like a regular sleeping space. Then he calls us all into the kitchen and coaches us on what to say if anyone asks questions.

“Tell them we’re a normal family,” Dad said.

“Tell them the shed is for camping equipment,” he said.

“Tell them we sometimes sleep outside for fun during good weather,” he instructed.

Yousef studies the instructions eagerly, nodding and asking clarifying questions like he’s studying for a test. Mom nods mechanically, her face blank and obedient.

I realize they’re all going to lie perfectly because they’re too scared to do anything else. They are too broken to imagine that telling the truth might actually help instead of making things worse.

When Ammani arrives that afternoon with her clipboard and kind smile, we perform exactly as Dad scripted. She’s a black woman in her 30s with tired eyes and a gentle voice, and she sits in our living room asking questions while Dad hovers nearby.

Yousef enthusiastically describes our loving family, even volunteering stories about camping trips that never happened. He talks about family game nights and weekend activities, painting this picture of normal suburban life.

Mom speaks in a quiet controlled voice about normal family stress and teenage drama. She explains that I’ve been going through a difficult phase lately.

I want to scream the truth, want to grab Ammani and show her the pit and the shed and make her understand what really happens here. But Dad’s hand is on my shoulder, heavy and threatening, and the words die in my throat before they can form.

I just nod along with whatever Mom says, my voice small and careful. Ammani notices things anyway, her trained eyes catching details we can’t hide completely.

She sees the way we all defer to Dad, how we look to him before answering any question. She notices how Mom’s hands shake slightly when she talks, how she keeps smoothing her shirt over and over.

She sees the dark circles under my eyes and Yasmin’s pale sickly appearance, the way Yasmin can barely sit up straight on the couch. Ammani asks to speak with Yasmin privately.

She requests permission to schedule a medical evaluation, citing concerns about her visible weight loss and chronic cough. Dad agrees smoothly, playing the concerned father who just wants the best for his daughter.

He talks about how worried he’s been, how he’s been meaning to take her to the doctor but work has been so busy. But I can feel his rage building beneath the performance.

I can sense the punishment that’s coming once Ammani leaves. His hand tightens on my shoulder just slightly, a warning that only I can feel.

The Resistance Grows

After Ammani leaves, Dad moves through the house like a storm, confiscating every phone and device he can find. He searches through our rooms with cold efficiency, opening drawers and checking hiding spots with the thoroughness of someone who’s done this before.

He takes my diary from under my mattress, Yousef’s laptop from his desk, even Mom’s old tablet that barely works anymore. He piles everything on the kitchen table while we watch in silence.

He announces that outside contact is now forbidden except for school. Anyone caught talking to teachers, neighbors, or social workers about family business will spend a week straight in the pit.

His voice is calm, but his eyes are cold with fury, and we all know he means every word. I think about my hidden phone in the garage insulation and pray he doesn’t find it.

I pray that my one remaining link to the outside world stays secret. Dad looks at each of us in turn, making sure we understand the new rules.

He wants us to know that the consequences for breaking them will be severe. That night after everyone goes to their assigned sleeping spots, I wait until I hear Dad’s bedroom door close before sneaking into the garage.

My hands shake as I pull the notebook from where I hid it under my sleeping bag earlier. The notebook is small and worn, filled with months of data tracking every ranking, every vote, every pattern in Dad’s system.

I feel along the garage wall until I find a gap in the insulation between the wall studs. The pink fiberglass scratches my fingers as I push the notebook deep into the gap, stuffing it as far back as my arm can reach.