Typo

Chapter 11: Paisley

Two others finished filling their barrels as I was dragging mine to the shed. They copied my actions, grunting loudly. The barrels being much lighter while empty than full. I had to stop a few times to bite back tears, the skin ripped away at the base of my fingers becoming incredibly painful. 

I gasped thankfully when I heaved my last barrel in front of the shed. I plopped on the ground and held my pulsing hands out in front of me to inspect them. The sight made the pain pulsate through my fingers. I pressed my palms against my pants, the pressure relieving some of the pain. When I brought my hands away, my bloody hand print was left behind.

When Harry notified us that forty-five minutes were remaining, everyone was either done or finishing up. Most of us sat on the ground, leaning back against the shed. We were all complaining about something, bathing in our own pity. Except Paisley.

By the time all of us had finished our eighth barrel she had only just started her sixth. The Captain gave us a thirty minute warning when she started to cry. I heaved myself from the ground and decided to help her. Her blubbery thank you’s were on constant repeat while I placed fruit into her barrel. A few others joined me while the rest stayed seated.

Our efforts proved to be useless when we filled two more barrels– finishing her seventh, when the Captain warned us with five minutes to go. Sobs came louder from Paisley as we all half heartedly began to fill her last barrel. There was no way we were going to finish in time.

We had barely filled one forth of the barrel when the Captain called that time was up. My feet felt heavy as I walked away from the trees. My chest tightened painfully at the sounds of Paisley’s weeping. The eight of us lined up, shoulder to shoulder, in front of the shed.

We all watched the Captain solemnly as he counted the full barrels in front of the shed. I had a feeling he already knew there would only be fifty-seven instead of sixty-four. Paisley’s seven filled barrels and her barely filled eighth were still scattered about in the trees. Once the Captain finished counting, he walked in front of the first person in line. Everyone dropped their gazes to the ground except me. I watched the Corrector’s face but it gave nothing away.

“How many barrels have you finished?” he asked. His voice was cold and detached.

“Eight,” the boy replied.

The Captain shuffled slightly to his left, standing in front of the next person.

“How many barrels have you finished?” he repeated. The monotone drawl made goosebumps race up my arms.

“Eight,” the girl squeaked shyly.

The Captain stood in front of Davie next. The nervous Typo kept his eyes trained on the ground between his feet.

“How many barrels have you finished?” His tone seemed to have changed. It was a bit more harsh and Davie visibly flinched.

“Eight, sir,” he whimpered submissively.

The process continued robotically until he reached the last two people, Paisley and I. The Captain stood in front of me and I looked him right in the eye. He paused before speaking, holding eye contact.

“1930. How many barrels have you finished?” That same, emotionless voice.

“Eight,” I said, trying to match his tone. He sucked his lips into his mouth and gave a small nod.

He moved in front of Paisley. Looking down on her whimpering form, swallowing, and clearing his throat. We all held our breath as he repeated the same question.

“How many barrels have you finished?” His tone had changed again. He knew.

“Seven,” she responded, bringing her hands to her mouth to muffle her own cries. Harry continued to stare for a few more heart beats. There was something in his expression that was hard to determine.