Chapter 1: The Gilded Invitation

Chapter 1: The Gilded Invitation

The fluorescent lights of the history classroom hummed a monotonous tune, a sound Travis had come to associate with the slow death of his will to live. He slouched in his plastic chair, his right leg stretched stiffly into the aisle. A sleek black brace, a constant reminder of shredded cartilage and a stolen future, encased his knee. The phantom ache was a dull throb today, a quiet companion to the profound boredom seeping into his bones.

Outside, the late autumn sun cast long shadows across the football field. He should have been out there, breathing in the crisp air, the satisfying clack of a puck on ice just a few weeks away. Instead, he was here, listening to Mrs. ClearField drone on about the agricultural revolution.

“And that, class,” she chirped, her voice a little too bright for a Tuesday morning, “brings me to a wonderful, last-minute opportunity!”

A collective groan rippled through the room. Last-minute opportunities from Mrs. ClearField usually involved extra credit essays on crop rotation.

She beamed, ignoring the dissent. “We have been given a unique invitation to visit a truly special place—Mercy Farms! It’s a completely self-sufficient, organic collective that operates on principles dating back centuries. A real living history lesson!”

Travis snorted under his breath. A farm. Thrilling.

Mrs. ClearField clapped her hands together. “The bus leaves tomorrow morning, sharp at seven. It will be an all-day trip, so you’ll need to pack a lunch. And to make it educational, you’ll be assigned a partner to complete a report on your observations.”

She started reading names from a clipboard, a cruel matchmaker forging alliances of academic misery. Travis stared out the window, tracing the crack in the glass with his eyes, until his own name jolted him back.

“Travis Brewer… and Grace Wallace.”

Travis’s head snapped up. He looked across the room. Grace Wallace sat perfectly poised in the front row, her long blonde hair a flawless curtain falling over her shoulders. She was the captain of the cheer squad, the homecoming queen presumptive, the sun around which their school’s social universe orbited. He was… the hockey player with the busted knee. They existed in different ecosystems.

Her head turned slightly, and her piercing green eyes met his for a fraction of a second. There was no recognition, no emotion at all. Just a blank, dismissive glance before she faced forward again. He saw her slender fingers go to the small silver locket at her throat, a nervous habit he’d noticed before. So, the ice queen had a tell.

A jock from the back of the class, one of the football guys, raised his hand. “Mrs. C? Mercy Farms? You mean that place out past the old quarry? That’s like, an hour away. Why an all-day trip?”

A strange, tight smile stretched Mrs. ClearField’s lips. “We’ll be taking a specially chartered route, Mark. A more… scenic one. The journey is part of the experience. The bus company estimates a travel time of nine hours.”

The class erupted in confused murmurs. Nine hours? To go forty miles?

“Nine hours?” Mark scoffed. “You could drive to the coast and back in nine hours.”

“The arrangements have been made,” Mrs. ClearField said, her voice losing its cheerful edge and gaining a flinty hardness. It was the voice she used when she was done negotiating. “Attendance is mandatory. Now, find your partners and discuss your preliminary report topics.”

The scraping of chairs filled the room, a wave of groans and complaints. Travis didn't move. He felt a prickle of genuine unease, a feeling that went beyond his usual apathy. Nine hours. It didn’t make sense. It was a lie, and a bad one. Why lie about something so stupid?

A shadow fell over his desk. He looked up into Grace Wallace’s cool, appraising gaze. She stood with her arms crossed, her school hoodie immaculate, not a single thread out of place.

“So,” she said, her voice as crisp as an autumn apple. “Looks like we’re partners.”

“Guess I’m stuck with you,” Travis grumbled, shifting his bad leg.

“The feeling’s mutual,” she replied without missing a beat. Her eyes flickered down to the brace on his knee, then back to his face. “Just try not to slow us down.”

Before he could form a retort, she’d already turned away. “I’ll handle the introduction and historical context. You can cover the… farming techniques, or whatever.” She spoke as if she was delegating tasks for a pep rally banner, already certain of his incompetence. The assumption stung more than the insult.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of resentment. The absurdity of the nine-hour bus ride gnawed at him. He tried to look up Mercy Farms on his phone during lunch, but the search results were vague—just a few mentions on old county maps, no website, no pictures, no reviews. It was a digital ghost. The lack of information was more unsettling than a bad review would have been.

The next morning, the air was cold and damp. A thick fog clung to the ground, muffling the world in a blanket of grey. An old, mustard-yellow bus, the kind that looked like it had been retired a decade ago, idled at the curb in front of the school. It wasn't one of the usual district buses. This one was unmarked, its windows tinted so dark they looked like voids.

The driver stood by the door, a tall, gaunt man in a worn-out denim jacket. He didn’t speak, just nodded at them as they boarded, his eyes hidden in the shadow of a greasy baseball cap. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, traced its way down Travis’s spine.

He found a seat halfway back, throwing his bag onto the worn vinyl next to him. A moment later, Grace appeared in the aisle. With a sigh of theatrical annoyance, she gestured at his bag. “That’s my seat.”

Travis grudgingly moved his bag to the floor. She slid in beside him, keeping a careful distance, her scent of expensive perfume a stark contrast to the bus's musty smell of diesel and mildew. She immediately pulled out her phone, her thumb flying across the screen, a perfect wall of disinterest erected between them.

Mrs. ClearField did a final headcount, her smile looking pasted-on in the gloomy morning light. “Alright, everyone! Let’s get this show on the road! Settle in for the journey.”

The bus doors hissed shut with a sound of grim finality. The engine rumbled, and with a lurch, they pulled away from the familiar red brick of the school, plunging into the fog.

Travis stared out the window, watching the last of their town—the gas station, the diner, the welcome sign—dissolve into the grey mist. Beside him, Grace let out a frustrated sigh.

“Great,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “No service already.”

She shoved her phone back into her pocket and wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze fixed on the impenetrable white outside. Her fingers found the silver locket again, twisting it back and forth.

Travis leaned his head against the vibrating window. The mundane reality of his life was fading behind them. Ahead lay a road he couldn't see, a destination that didn't make sense, and a nine-hour journey that felt less like a field trip and more like a sentence. The initial unease was coalescing into a knot of genuine dread in his stomach. The wheels hummed on the asphalt, carrying them deeper into the unknown.