Chapter 4: Blood in the Olive Grove

I was a bit over eight years old when I ended up in olive country. They told me the new family was Italian, which didn’t mean anything to me at the time except that the place smelled like garlic and oregano even before you walked through the door. Giaccopo—Jake, as he demanded to be called—was the foster dad, and his wife Sara looked like someone who had never won a single argument in her entire life. They had two other foster boys, both about a year older than me, both already scarred by their time in the system, and neither had any interest in anything that didn’t involve staying out of Jake’s way.

At first, I figured it might be alright. The house was old, but clean. The orchard out back stretched farther than the eye could see, rows of silver-green trees shimmering under the sun. I stayed quiet. I stayed out of the way. That had worked before.

But Jake wasn’t like the other foster parents. He didn’t just drink. He simmered with a kind of rage that clung to the walls like smoke. You could feel it even when he was smiling, and that was the worst part—he could smile wide and loud when neighbors were around, slapping backs, offering wine, playing the good Italian patriarch. But once the door closed and the night got deep enough, the belt came off and the games began.

He didn’t come for me at first. I was too quiet, too helpful. I washed dishes. I folded laundry. I swept the floors and memorized the creaks in every board of that house. I knew how to move without sound, how to listen to arguments from the other room and tell how drunk he was by the length of the pauses between words. But invisibility had its cost. It made him suspicious. What was I hiding? Why wasn’t I reacting?

I learned to live on the edge of tension, my senses constantly scanning. I could tell from the smell in the hallway if he’d had gin or red wine. I knew which belt he favored when he was truly angry—brown leather with a brass buckle. I memorized exits, routes through the orchard, where the neighbor’s property began. I learned the shape of fear, and how to live inside it without drowning.

School was larger, more chaotic, but I preferred it that way. I found the library early and made it my refuge. It had a better selection than my previous schools. I dove deeper into books on first aid, herbs, biology, even some field manuals someone had donated. I copied diagrams into notebooks and made flashcards. I studied like my life depended on it. Because one day, it might.