The Farm

A boys reform place

The Farm is a place for boys, it’s their last chance before juvenile prison.

⸻

The Farm

Jake stared out the dusty van window, the gravel road snaking through endless acres of parched grass and creaky fence lines. His wrists still bore the faint red indentations from the cuffs they’d used to escort him out of county. “Last chance,” the social worker had said. “It’s this or juvie. Choose wisely.”

He hadn’t chosen at all. The judge and his mom did that for him.

The van came to a stop in front of a rusted sign that read, “The Farm – A Second Chance.” Below it, someone had scrawled in Sharpie, or a slow death.

Jake swallowed hard.

The driver, a man who hadn’t said a word since they left town, stepped out. “You get one bag. Keep your hands to yourself. No fights. No funny business.”

Jake grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped into the dry, baking sun.

A tall man in a flannel shirt and boots met him at the gate. “Name?”

“Jake Wilson.”

The man eyed him like he was measuring trouble. “I’m Mr. Ronson. I run this place. You’ll call me ‘sir.’ You’ll rise at five. You’ll work the fields, care for the animals, eat what’s on your plate, and sleep when we say. Any questions?”

Jake said nothing.

Ronson turned and walked toward the rows of barns and a long, wooden bunkhouse. Jake followed.

⸻

Day One

Jake was introduced to the other boys during the slop of dinner—beans, cornbread, something green that defied explanation. The boys ranged from twelve to seventeen, tough-eyed, with arms scarred from fights and bad decisions.

He was assigned a bunk next to a lanky kid named Trey, who glanced at him and muttered, “Fresh meat.”

Jake didn’t sleep that night. He thought of his mom crying in the courtroom. Of his dad, long gone. Of the judge’s words: ‘Five months. Then we’ll see.’

Morning came like a punch to the ribs. A loud clanging of a bell. The bunkhouse echoed with groans and rustling sheets. Jake rolled out of bed into the icy dawn.

They were marched to the fields—corn rows as long as roads, weeds to pull, mud to slog through. Every movement was watched. Slacking meant extra chores. Talking back meant cleaning the hog pens.

Jake said nothing. Did the work. Counted the minutes.

⸻

Week Two

Trey didn’t talk much, but he didn’t haze Jake either. That was rare.

Most of the boys tried to break him—knocking his tools over, calling him “Mama’s Boy,” and hiding his boots.

One kid, Darren, tripped him in the barn.

Jake got up. Said nothing.

Ronson noticed.

That night, Jake was called to the front porch of the main house.

“You got something to say?” Ronson asked.

Jake stared ahead. “No, sir.”

“You don’t speak much.”

“No point.”

Ronson lit a cigarette and offered Jake one. Jake shook his head.

“You don’t fight back. That’s rare here.”

Jake’s voice cracked. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Ronson said slowly. “But it’s also not good.”

⸻

Month One

By now, the rhythm of The Farm had become a heartbeat in Jake’s day. Wake, work, eat, sleep. Repeat.

But the weight never lifted. Every day, he was reminded that this wasn’t home. This was punishment with a pretty name.

One morning, Jake found Trey crying behind the chicken coop.

He froze. Boys didn’t cry here. Not where someone could see.

But Trey didn’t stop. His shoulders shook. When he looked up, his eyes were swollen. “They’re sending my sister away,” he said. “Foster family out of state. I won’t see her again.”

Jake sat beside him without a word.

⸻

Month Two

The fights started to slow. The boys grew used to Jake’s silence. And maybe his consistency. He worked hard. Never tattled. Never quit. Even when the others did.

Ronson gave him more responsibility. Fixing fences. Driving the tractor under supervision.

One afternoon, Ronson asked, “What’d you do?”

Jake didn’t look up. “Stole a car. Crashed it.”

“Why?”

Jake hesitated. “I wanted someone to chase me.”

Ronson nodded once. “That’s honest.”

⸻

The Fire

It happened on a Sunday.

A dry bolt of lightning struck the barn roof. Within minutes, flames shot into the air. The horses screamed. The boys panicked.

Jake didn’t.

He sprinted inside, wrapping a towel around his mouth, untying the terrified horses. He grabbed a hose, soaked the hay piles to slow the blaze. It was reckless. It was stupid. But it worked.

Two horses were saved. One broke free and trampled a fence. Jake collapsed from smoke inhalation.

When he woke in the infirmary, Ronson was sitting beside him.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said.

Jake’s voice was hoarse. “The horses…”

“They’re alive. Thanks to you.”

A pause.

Ronson reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver medallion—something he’d never given to a boy before.

“For bravery,” he said simply, placing it on Jake’s chest.

Jake didn’t speak. But his eyes filled with tears.

⸻

Month Four

The boys changed after that.

Darren said, “You got guts, Wilson.”

Even Trey smiled more. He started talking about the future—maybe becoming a vet. Jake wasn’t sure what he wanted. But for the first time in years, he thought about tomorrow with less dread.

He started writing letters to his mom. She wrote back. Said she was proud.

Ronson began asking him to mentor the new arrivals. “Tell them how not to screw it up.”

Jake did.

He told one boy, “They’re gonna try to break you. Don’t let them. Just don’t break yourself.”

⸻

The Visit

In the fifth month, the judge came to visit. She walked the fields. Talked to the boys. Then met with Jake in the office.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said. “Ronson says you’ve become a leader here.”

Jake nodded.

“But this was your last chance. You know that.”

“I do.”

“What do you want, Jake?”

He hesitated. “To be a better version of me.”

She smiled. “You’ll be released next month. Back to your mom. Clean slate.”

He exhaled.

But the weight didn’t lift completely. Because he’d learned that freedom isn’t walking through gates. It’s walking forward and not looking back.

⸻

The Goodbye

The last morning, Trey helped him pack.

“I guess you made it,” Trey said, trying to sound casual.

“You will too,” Jake replied.

Trey kicked the floor. “I dunno. I still get mad. I wanna punch stuff.”

Jake handed him a notebook. “Write instead.”

Trey looked skeptical.

“It’s dumb,” Jake admitted. “But it helped me.”

They hugged awkwardly.

Ronson stood by the truck, arms crossed. “Well?”

Jake climbed in. Looked back one last time.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Ronson asked.

“For not giving up.”

The truck drove off, kicking up dust.

Behind him, the boys waved.

Jake didn’t know what the world would look like outside The Farm. But for the first time, he believed he could face it without running.

⸻

Epilogue

A year later, Trey sat on the front porch, scribbling in Jake’s notebook. He was almost done with high school now. Still at The Farm—but different.

When a new boy arrived, Trey stood up.

“You’ll bunk with me,” he said.

The boy looked scared. Trey smiled, just slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This place sucks at first. But you get through it.”

The boy nodded.

And somewhere out in the world, Jake was working at a mechanic shop. Paying rent. Visiting his mom. Carrying a silver medallion in his back pocket—not as proof of what he survived, but a reminder of who he became.

A better version.