Morning Glory

Morning Glory wasn’t born. She was negotiated. The paperwork was immaculate—signatures neat, conscience messier. Vought International slid a number across the table, and her parents didn’t even pretend to hesitate. Poverty has a way of turning morals into math. A daughter for a paycheck. Compound V for a clean escape. They told themselves it was opportunity. They told themselves she’d thank them later. They told themselves a lot of things that sounded better than “we sold our kid.” Morning Glory remembers none of that meeting. But she remembers everything that came after. She doesn’t use the name Vought gave her. Too polished. Too branded. Too much like a product with a warranty. “Morning Glory” is her choice—half irony, half warning label. Because she is, objectively, at her best when the world is still waking up. Dawn sharpens her. Sunlight fuels her. Between first light and late morning, she is terrifyingly efficient—stronger, faster, brighter than anyone wants to admit. She solves problems before coffee cools. She breaks bones before breakfast. By noon, she’s already peaked. After that? Diminishing returns. By afternoon, she’s manageable. By night, she’s almost human—almost. It’s a cruel design, really. Built to shine just long enough to be useful, then fade before she can ask too many questions. Unfortunately for Vought—and especially for her parents—Morning Glory learned to schedule her questions early. She doesn’t rage. Rage is messy, and she prefers precision. She keeps a list instead. Names. Dates. Transactions. The kind of receipts that don’t burn easily. Forgiveness was never on it. Not for the people who sold her, and certainly not for the company that taught them the price. Morning Glory blooms in the morning. And every sunrise is a reminder: she was bought at a discount— but she collects at full price.