By Charlotte Mistry
Copyright 2012 Charlotte Mistry
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The sun is a blazing eye overhead. In the slave pens, Connor has long since given up trying to get comfortable in the narrow stripe of shade he’s squeezed himself into. He’s dreading the sunburn he’ll have tomorrow if he has to stay out here much longer- he’s about four shades paler than anyone else crowded in with him. If he were any whiter he’d probably be reflective. His body’s always refused to tan.
Normally that might be a mixed blessing. That kind of thing, along with his ash-blond hair, is exotic around here. It would fetch a high price and get him sold faster so he could be out of the heat and the noise and the sheer stink of hopelessness and too many bodies crowded into too-small places.