Chapter 2: Straw and Sweat

Elias didn't sleep so much as pass out, his tiny body folding under a mind that wouldn't shut off. He'd wake in bursts—gagging on his own spit, startled by a pig squealing too close to the hovel's walls, or just mad at the dark for weighing him down. Lysa's arms were always there, a cage he couldn't bust out of—rocking him, holding him tight against her chest like he'd disappear if she let up. Her heartbeat thumped against his ear, fast and uneven, like she was scared of something she wouldn't say. Thom's cough rattled through the night, a wet, ripping sound that made Elias wince every time it hit. Brenna's muttering was the constant hum—grumbles about the cold, the pigs, the baby who wouldn't pipe down—her voice small but sharp, cutting through the fog in his head.

He hated it—every damn bit of it. Hated the weakness, the way his arms flopped like wet noodles when he tried to move them, the way his thoughts smeared together in a brain that felt too soft. He'd rebuilt a carburetor blindfolded once, half-tanked on cheap whiskey and spite, but now he couldn't even grab the edge of the scratchy blanket swaddling him. Worse, he was stuck—trapped in a body that couldn't talk, couldn't demand answers, couldn't do jack but wail and wait. So he stopped wailing, mostly. Clamped his gums shut and listened, hard, picking apart this shitty new life like he was troubleshooting a blown engine with no tools.

The hovel was a box of mud and straw, a single room that stank of smoke and damp and bodies crammed too close. The firepit sat in the middle, spitting sparks onto a floor packed with dirt and littered with straw that stuck to everything—his blanket, Lysa's shift, Thom's boots when he trudged in from the yard. A loom hulked in the corner, its frame warped and creaking, threads dangling like they'd given up halfway. The pallet where they slept was a pile of rags and straw, sour with sweat, where Lysa curled around him at night, Thom hacking on the other side, Brenna wedged in muttering about the chill. Outside, the pigs snuffled and splashed, their grunts seeping through walls so thin they might as well have been paper—patched with mud where the wind clawed holes. Elias caught every noise, every creak, storing it in a head that wouldn't quit even when his body sagged.

Thom and Lysa bickered in low, sharp jabs when they thought Brenna was out cold—though Elias could see her eyes glinting in the dark, wide awake and listening too. It was always the same crap, different flavors: too little grain, too many mouths, and something about "the baron's tithe" that made Thom's voice drop to a growl. "Gavern'll come soon," he'd say, coughing phlegm into the fire until it hissed. "Squeeze us dry, Lysa. You know how he gets." She'd hush him, her voice tight like a wire about to snap. "We've got the loom. I'll weave extra—Meg'll take it at market. We'll scrape by." Elias caught the wobble in it—she didn't buy her own line any more than Thom did, but she kept saying it, like the words might patch the holes in their life.

Daylight didn't make it better. It leaked through the cracks, gray and weak, painting the hovel in shades of gloom. Elias saw more then—Thom limping out to the yard, his bad leg dragging through the mud as he cursed the pigs or hacked at a field that looked more like a weed patch than a crop. Lysa stayed bent over the loom half the day, her fingers red and cracked from the thread, humming songs that never landed right—off-key, halting, but steady enough to fill the quiet. Brenna hauled water from a stream—Elias hadn't seen it, just heard her griping about the slog—her skinny arms trembling under a bucket that sloshed half its load before she got back. She'd dump it by the door, glare at him like he'd sent her out there, and flop off to poke the fire or kick straw into clumps. They were a machine, this family, rattling on empty, and Elias was the extra piece jamming it up.

He couldn't blame them for resenting him. He'd been a mouth to feed once before—just him and a fridge of leftovers in a Pittsburgh walk-up—but this was a different kind of broke. Here, every bite was a gamble, every scrap of barley or strip of cloth a fight against the next hungry day. Thom's rants spelled it out: pigs eating their own runts, barley rotting in the ground, and now a baby they hadn't asked for. Lysa's cooing didn't hide the wear—her eyes were sunken, her hands shook when she thought no one saw. Brenna didn't even try to mask it—she'd mutter "another mouth" loud enough for him to hear, like he was a stray they'd taken in out of guilt. Elias got it. Didn't mean he had to like it.

So he watched, studied, waited. His body was a traitor—too small, too floppy—but his mind was still his, thirty-two years of tinkering and cussing and late-night Wikipedia dives rattling around in a skull that couldn't hold it all yet. He forced his blurry eyes to track shapes: the firepit's glow dancing on the walls, the loom's wobble when Lysa worked it hard, the crude wooden spoon Thom carved one night, shavings curling into the straw. His ears strained for anything useful—the clink of a distant hammer, maybe a blacksmith a mile off; the bleat of goats past the pigs; the way Lysa's humming hitched on certain notes, like it meant something she didn't explain. He didn't know what it added up to yet—just noise and junk—but he kept it, a mental pile he'd sort through when he could move.

Weeks smeared into months, slow as rust creeping up a fender. Elias grew—too damn slow for his taste—his body stretching inch by inch, bones firming up just enough to feel less like mush. He could roll over now, prop himself on shaky arms, and babble sounds that weren't words—grunts and slurps that made Lysa beam like he'd said something smart. "Look at him, Thom," she'd say, scooping him up. "Talking already!" Thom'd grunt, "Quiet's better," but there was a flicker in his scowl sometimes, like he didn't hate it completely. Brenna just rolled her eyes, kicking straw harder, and Elias caught her staring once—narrowed eyes, like she was trying to figure him out.

He wasn't a normal baby—he knew that much. Didn't fuss as much as he should've, didn't cry unless he was starving or ticked off. Mostly he watched, too still, too focused, and it threw them off sometimes. Lysa'd laugh it off—"My clever boy"—but Thom'd mutter about "weird eyes," and Brenna said it straight-up one day, crouching by the pallet while Lysa was out. "You're weird," she whispered, poking his cheek with a muddy finger. "Stare too much. Like you're not even a baby." Elias stared back, wishing she could see it—he wasn't some drooling lump, wasn't just their problem. Inside, he was still the guy who'd rigged a generator from scrap during a blackout, who'd outworked every slacker in the shop. He'd show it, soon as he could move without falling flat.

Moving was the first scrap. Rolling got him nowhere fast—straw stuck to his face, hands too weak to push far. He kept at it anyway, grunting and sweating until Lysa scooped him back to the pallet, cooing like he'd done something big. Crawling came next, slow and sloppy—knees scraping, arms trembling, every inch a wrestle with a body that didn't get him. He'd make it halfway to the firepit before collapsing, chest heaving, and Thom'd snort from the stool. "Stubborn little shit," he'd say, not mean about it, and go back to carving. Elias didn't care—he'd rest, then go again, until he could cross the room without eating dirt. Lysa called it a miracle; Brenna called it a pain, tripping over him half the time with her water bucket. Elias called it a start, even if it left him banged up and panting.

Talking was a bigger mess. His tongue was a clumsy slab, thick and slow, turning "mama" into "mah" and "no" into a garbled "nah." He worked at it anyway, alone in the straw when the others were out—grunting, hissing, until his throat ached. Lysa caught him once, mid-babble, and clapped like he'd sung a song. "Hear that, Thom? He's got words!" Thom hacked a laugh, "Sounds like a drunk pig," but he carved slower, listening. Elias kept going, not for them—for him. Words were a tool, and he'd need 'em to get anywhere in this dump.

Months turned to a year, maybe more—time was a blur with no clocks or calendars, just gray days sliding into grayer nights. Elias was bigger now, a wiry little thing with scraped knees and a mop of dark hair Lysa kept brushing back. He could sit up, sort of—propped against the wall, hands splayed in the dirt—and his eyes were clearer, picking out details he'd missed: the way Thom's knife nicked the wood in a pattern, not random; the way Lysa's songs looped, like she was stuck on them; the way Brenna's mutters turned soft when she thought he was out. He was still stuck, still useless half the time, but he was getting somewhere—learning this world, piece by piece.

One night, rain drumming the roof, Thom coughing worse than usual, Elias lay in the straw, chewing the blanket's edge—straw and sweat, a taste he couldn't shake. His hands flexed, sore from crawling, and he stared at the fire's glow, mind ticking. He wasn't dying here—not again. He'd figure out how to move, how to talk, how to make this place less of a wreck. Outside, the wind howled, pigs squealed, and Thom hacked until he spat something dark into the flames. Elias bit down harder on the blanket and kept thinking.