CHAPTER THREE: Strength in Hardship
Erik's Thoughts
What happened? Why is it so dark? Am I in a room with no light, or are my eyes closed? A cold breeze brushed against me, and I felt the sun's warmth on my skin, yet I saw only darkness. The air smelled sweet, familiar somehow. I could move my body, but I couldn't see it. When I tried to speak, I wasn't sure if the words left my mouth or stayed trapped in my mind.
Then a soft, feminine laugh reached my ears—familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Can you see the beauty around you?" a mysterious voice asked.
I wanted to answer, but my mouth wouldn't move. Or maybe I had no answer because I couldn't see anything.
"Clear skies, sparkling water, lush trees, green fields, and peaceful animals playing—doesn't this place feel like paradise?" the voice continued.
What was she talking about? She seemed to want me to see something, but how could I when everything was dark?
"Don't you find this place amazing?" she asked again.
A strong gust of wind hit me, forcing my arms up to shield my face. Slowly, I opened my eyes. I stood in a vibrant meadow, surrounded by wildflowers and greenery. Animals and birds frolicked in the peaceful landscape, their joy infectious. The air felt fresh, the scenery so perfect it could be a dream. My heart raced with excitement, as if this place was calling to me.
"What do you think of my home?" the voice asked again.
I knew that voice. I'd heard it before. It came from behind me, close, but when I turned, another gust of wind forced my eyes shut. For the second time, I couldn't see her face. When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at a window, the world outside rattling by. The hum of an engine filled my ears. I was slumped against the door of the truck's passenger seat, asleep until now.
End of Thoughts
Kardo Malasi, the driver, was a rugged man of forty with short black hair and dark skin from years under the sun. A vegetable trader since childhood, he knew the ins and outs of their work—especially how to navigate rebels and Spanish officials who blocked their way. He always stayed cautious to avoid trouble.
The truck rolled toward their third destination, despite the attack on Erik the previous night. A bandage wrapped his head, and scrapes marked his arms from his fall on the street. His mind was still foggy, the events of the night unclear.
Kardo glanced at him. "Feeling okay, kid? Don't tell me you've got amnesia after those bandits got you."
Erik's eyes widened as Kardo recounted the attack. He hadn't expected to be a victim of thieves, robbed in the dark. Rebels were ruthless, moving fast to avoid being shot by Spanish soldiers. Erik knew the risks and blamed himself for ignoring Kardo's warning about going out alone at night. He should've followed the group's rules, the advice of the elders.
His head bowed, tears welling up as he sniffled. The memory of the attack overwhelmed him.
"Hey, kid, are you crying?" Kardo said, his voice softening. "It was scary, but it's over. You're safe now."
Erik tried to stop, wiping his eyes with his arm, but the tears kept coming.
Kardo's Thoughts
This kid's a mess. Seeing him cry, hearing his sobs—it's tightening my chest. Maybe I feel sorry for him. He's too young for this life. I hate seeing kids work as vegetable traders. The loads we carry are heavy, yet Erik never complains. It's shocking.
Our life is exhausting. From dawn to dusk, we haul and sell, no time for fun—things a kid like him should be doing. He's wasting his youth. He should be making friends, playing, not breaking his back for carrots. At his age, he should be in school, holding a pen, not baskets of vegetables.
My brow furrowed, and my grip tightened on the steering wheel. My knees twitched with irritation. Why was I so angry? Maybe because Erik reminds me of my own kids, the same age, who I'm working hard to keep in school. I don't want them to end up like me—or him.
I can't stand the thought of my kids going through what Erik's facing. As their father, I'd never let that happen. Looking at him, crying, I saw my children in his place. I sighed, reached out, and patted his head to comfort him.
Then he sobbed, "I lost all the money I earned. I need to make it back for Mama and Papa. They worked so hard planting those carrots, expecting me to bring home something."
I froze. He wasn't crying about the attack or his pain—he was crying about the money for his family. I wanted to shake him, yell at him for being so foolish. He nearly died! That kind of trauma isn't a joke, especially for a kid. I remembered being caught by rebels years ago, beaten for the money I hid. It was hell.
Why doesn't he care about himself? His arms were trembling from weakness, but he ignored it, pushing his body to the limit just to earn. What kind of thinking is that? I couldn't take it anymore. I was furious.
But should I scold him? Do I even have the right to stop him? He's not my son, not my family. Why should I care if the Spanish exploit him or rebels rob him? He chose this life—he should face its consequences.
Yet, as I glanced in the mirror and saw his tears, I saw myself in him—a boy who gave up his childhood to work. Tired, hungry, soaked by rain, scorched by the sun, abused by the Spanish, and endangered by rebels. It's exhausting. It's hard. I don't want to remember those days. That's why I work so my kids won't live like I did.
Erik's bringing back feelings I tried to bury. That's why I'm angry. Why does a kid his age have to work? Why were we born poor? Is this fair? It's not his fault he was born into poverty, but he has to toil to survive.
Just like me back then.
No matter how angry I get, no one can answer my questions. We're poor, and all we can do is keep working to survive. The world needs balance—rich and poor, plenty and want, those at the top and those at the bottom. That's how it is. We're just unlucky, stuck at the bottom.
I let go of his head and sighed. "Don't worry, kid. You'll earn it back. What matters is you're alive, and you've got a chance to keep going."
Those were the only words I could manage. I should've scolded him, but maybe I didn't know what else to say—or maybe those were the words I told myself years ago to keep going.
End of Thoughts
Silence settled in the truck as Kardo drove on. Then he grabbed his bag and handed it to Erik, urging him to take the bread inside. Erik hesitated, knowing Kardo needed the food too. Everyone in their group scraped by to provide for their families.
"Stop being stubborn and take it," Kardo insisted.
Erik frowned, unsure if Kardo pitied him or expected payment later. "Take it, or I'll feel guilty forever," Kardo added.
Erik was puzzled—Kardo had no part in the attack. But his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the night before. Despite his doubts, he took the bread and ate. In his haste, he choked, and Kardo quickly handed him water.
"Slow down, Carrot Boy. No one's stealing it," Kardo said, chuckling.
Erik gulped the water, his energy returning. A smile spread across his face. "Thank you, Kuya Kardo," he said warmly.
"No need to thank me. You'll pay for it," Kardo teased.
Erik's eyes widened, panicked. "I don't have any money left!" he blurted, clutching his bandaged head as if it ached.
Kardo laughed, admitting he was joking. He ruffled Erik's hair, making him wince from the wound but grinning at the playful banter. "You're in worse pain when it's about money, huh?" Kardo teased.
Erik didn't know why the usually gruff Kardo was being kind, joking with him, but he was grateful—not just for the bread but for the encouragement to start over. "One day, I'll pay you back triple, Kuya Kardo. It might take a while, though," Erik said.
"Triple? When's that gonna happen?" Kardo asked, amused.
"When I'm rich," Erik replied confidently.
Kardo burst out laughing, messing up Erik's hair again. "Alright, I'll hold you to it. Just make sure I'm still alive when you're rich."
They laughed and talked as the truck rumbled toward the next market. In the middle of their chat, Kardo's tone turned serious. "I'm sorry, kid. I didn't expect that to happen," he said.
Erik was confused, assuming Kardo meant touching his sore head. But Kardo felt deeper guilt. He knew he'd been selfish, not helping Erik when he had the chance. He understood the pain of being a young vegetable trader, ignored in times of struggle, just as he'd been years ago. Seeing Erik suffer the same way stirred something in him.
Kardo decided then to look out for Erik, to treat him like a son, and help him however he could.
End of Chapter Three