This time, a flicker. Not in her face. In her eyes, a tiny tremor, like a flame hiding under ash. Caleb stood and went to a corner. When he turned back, he held a hunting knife with a wide blade and a handle worn smooth by years. He gripped it by the blade and offered the handle to her.
“Take it.”
Benita’s gaze dropped to the knife, then lifted back to him. Distrust hardened her mouth. Caleb exhaled as if he’d expected this. He set the knife on the ground between them and stepped back two paces, hands empty, palms open. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “And I won’t send you to the fields like they did. I’ve got… a different plan. But I need you to listen.”
Benita’s voice, when it finally came, was rough, scraped raw by thirst and silence. “Plans are for men. Chains are for me.”
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