When I bought my farmhouse, my mother taught me to look past the surface layer and look instead at the potential. Anything can be repainted, faucet fixtures can be replaced, carpet can be ripped out, rooms can be added, joined. It’s more important to focus on the foundation, check for mold, etc,

All of that upper-handed knowledge went out the window the second I saw him. I knew, instantly, that he would be going home with me, without even having read his dossier. I didn’t even make him uncurl, I just watched him sleep. I had to spend an hour doing my best acting with Master Rutherford, feigning disinterest and alluding boredom. There had to be a reason why the price was so low. What was he hiding?

Master Rutherford insisted that there was no secrets, it was just he couldn’t handle three and run his rifle business at the same time. I considered his other two boys. They were steel eyed and muscular, one chained up in a choke collar by his feet, the other militant in leather by the front door.

“Handle?” I scoffed, gesturing to the lad asleep on the rug, “He looks docile as a ragdoll cat.”

Master Rutherford set down his whiskey glass, “That’s kind of the problem, actually. He’s very …sensitive. His skin, I mean, and his stomach too. He cries at the drop of a hat. I’ve told him he made a mistake selling himself, but he seems determined to stick it out. I don’t know. I just can’t own a boy I can’t whip without feeling like I’m kicking a puppy.”

I didn’t say anything. I knelt by him, my calfskin boots creaking softly, and pushed a lock of chestnut hair out of his eyes. I traced the back of my fingernails over the knot of shoulder muscle. Gently, I lifted one of his legs too and had a look. Uncut. 900 pieces was a fine price for such raw material.

It was growing late, and this bartering was growing stale. “I’ll take him.” I announced. Master Rutherford clapped his hands together, “Excellent! Most excellent. I’ll get the transfer paperwork ready and send it over to the Processing Center in the morning.” He got up from the sofa and left the room for his office. I stopped him in the doorframe. “A moment, Rutherford?”

“Yes…?” he asked hesitantly.

“What do you call him?”

He glanced at the boy, then back at me, “Names don’t seem to stick to him. He always sleeps in a tight little ball like that…so I’ve taken to calling him Egg.”

“Egg…” I murmured, “A fragile name for a fragile slave.” The boy – my boy – stirred but didn’t wake up. He would be in for a surprise tomorrow when he got the news. “Don’t you worry lad, even if a chicken laid you in a peasant’s hen-house, I am going to turn you into a Fabergé.”

Credit: Photograph by the talented DearIndifference on DeviantArt. You will need to sign in, as most of his photographs are under the mature filter.