1968, Deytonsbury

Whenever Abad entered a new town, he had a few rules he made himself over the years.

1. Make yourself a new name. That way no one can track you down.

2. The new name should have Anthony as the first name. Should, not must.

3. Try to figure out how the people are. When they're conservative, leave immediately.

4. When they ask: Yes, you are christian.

You are a latino (when they ask you to speak Spanish just bable anything with -o or - a at the end - they won't notice the difference.)

You are 21.

You're here to work for anyone who's willing to pay.

And the newest rule:

5. Don't ever date. No debate.

Abad repeated the rules over and over in his head as he saw the sign 'Deytonbury'. Didn't looked to big, but they always have jobs in those places.

As he looked around he saw an man with gray hair working on the field, picking up apples. Abad smiled. That was perfect.

"Good morning, sir", he greeted him, reminding himself to add the "sir". That's important in rural America.

The man looked at Abad, but not at his face. He didn't looked at him like a person, but more like at a cow.

"What do you want, boy?", the man asked with a thick midland accent. "You don't look like you're from here."

Back then, Abad would be furious by such statement. He knew, the man didn't meant England when he said such things.

But he remained silent. There where places and times to be angry and now and here weren't one of those.

"That is right, sir. I look for a job and want to ask if you need any help."

The man looked at him again. He put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn't light it. "You're strong?"

"Yes, I am."

"And healthy? The last boy I hired had tuberculosis."

Abad smiled, showing his nearly white teeth. "I am completely healthy, sir. If I am not, you can immeadledy fire me."

He wasn't ill in ages, not even the slightest cold. This won't be a problem at all.

The man circled him, lighting his cigeratte. Abad didn't moved. It wasn't the first time something like this happend and it won't be the last time.

"How is your English?"

"I can assure you, sir, I am completely fluent."

It's my native language, you idiot, he thought but bid his tongue. His opinion wasn't important in this matter.

"Can you calculate?"

"Yes, I can", he said, not understanding how this would be necessary for farm work.

"Really?", the man, not sounding generally surprised but more cautious said. "What is twelve plus eight?"

"Twenty."

"And eleven minus three?"

"Eight."

"Intresting", the man said, stopping circling him. "Didn't thought your kind can do math."

My 'kind' invented math, you stinky old idiot, he thought. Again, he remained silent.

The man, Mr. Jordan as he introduced himself, offered him two jobs at once. He should help at the farm at some days and at others work in the farm shop.

The payment would be alright, the better thing was that Mr. Jordan would let him sleep in the shed.

Abad agreed.

"What was your name again, boy?", Mr. Jordan asked.

"Anthony", Abad replied. "Anthony Crowley."

Even with their rocky start, Mr. Jordan seemed like a decent feller, Abad decided. Yes, he had his prejudices, but he also allowed him to eat the food that he picked.

At the farm days, Abad's (or Anthony's) day looked like this:

Wake up with the sun.

Take out all sort of buckets.

Feed the chickens.

Help Mrs. Jordan with carrying the milk.

Pick up the apples and maize.

At the end of farm days, his back, back and arms always hurt. Life in London was way easier for that matter.

But today should be Abad's (or Anthony's) first shop day and he was a bit (ha! Understood it?) excited.

He tried to brush his curly hair (plottwist, he still looked like a sheep) and put on the apron Mr. Jordan gave him the day before.

"Come on, Abad", he said to his reflexion of the window. "You had way worse jobs than this one. It can't be that bad."

The people who entered the little shop were mostly older people, wich essentially meant that they treated him like shit.

Like Mrs. Carlston, a angry redhaired woman, who screamed at him like if he had small pox (he didn't).

Or Mr. Weston, who entered the shop with a gun, because he thought Abad was robbing it (the only reason why he wasn't shot was because Mrs. Jordan gladfully saw this and stopped him.)

But thankfully, most people didn't even left a comment about him. Maybe because they were ignoring him, but that was another problem.

Everything went pretty normal, until the bell ringed the last time that day.

"Good day, how are you?", Abad asked. He figured out, that the people always asked that, never even waiting for an answer.

It was a blonde girl at his age, he noticed. Her head hung down, her hair covering her face.

"Good day", she said. "Everything's good. Do you still have eggs?"

"I have. How many do you need?"

The girl grinned. "Thought you can read minds, Mikey?"

Abad blinked. "Ehm sorry, that isn't one of my many superpowers."

The girl looked at him and with her widened pupils and red cheeks he can tell, that she didn't recognised him as Michael "Mikey" Tennessean.

"Sorry, thought you're Michael", she said, blushing evne more as she looked him in the face. After a while she scanned his face, but not like a cow, but as for a fellow human being.

"Who are you?", she asked. "The secret Jordan cousin? Some bastard son?"

She blushed again. "Sorry 'bout the last one", she mumbled.

"Ey, everything's fine. I'm Anthony and not in any way related to the Jordan's...as far as I know. I just work here", he said, packing out eggs. "So...who are you Mikey-Bastard-Girl?"

She smiled a smile, that would've definitely be called unlady-like. "My name's Charlotte", she said. "Nice to meet you, Tony."

"That isn't my nickname, Charlie."

"And that isn't mine! For Christ's sake", she said. "Please, just call me Lotte or Peyton, if you want."

She looked Abad directly in the eyes. Her blue eyes seemed like the wide sky or a deep lake or cold ice. Something he would just fall (for).

Had cleared his throat. "So, Lotte, how many eggs do you need?"

And before Abad could noticed, he thought about breaking rule 5.