Poor woman, her story was lost forever, but that little bundle she left behind?Now, you'd think someone would step up and take care of this poor orphan, right? Wrong. The parish authorities, led by this guy Mr. Bumble - picture a peacock in human form, all puffed up and full of himself - they couldn't wait to wash their hands of the baby. They shipped him off faster than you can say "neglect" to this place called a juvenile farm. Sounds nice, doesn't it?This farm was run by Mrs. Mann, and let me tell you, she was a piece of work. Her heart was about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in winter. For nine long years, that's where little Oliver - yeah, that's our orphan's name - called home. But home?Imagine walls so damp you could practically wring them out, corners fuzzy with mold, and a constant ache in your belly that never goes away. That was Oliver's world. He and the other kids there were like little matchsticks, all skin and bones. They'd scurry around like mice, always on the lookout for a scrap of food or maybe, just maybe, a kind word. But kindness? In that place?So there's Oliver, turning nine years old. Most kids would be excited about their birthday, right? Cake, presents, the works. But for Oliver, his ninth birthday present was Mr. Bumble showing up to take him back to the workhouse. As they left Mrs. Mann's farm of horrors, Oliver felt this weird mix of scared and hopeful.Oh boy, was he in for a rude awakening. The workhouse? It was like jumping out of the frying pan and into a raging inferno. The place was designed to crush your spirit, grind you down until there was nothing left. Meals? They called it gruel, but it was more like dirty dishwater with a few oats floating in it. And the people running the place?The hunger in that place was like a living thing, gnawing away at everyone's insides. One day, the kids just couldn't take it anymore. They came up with this crazy plan - they'd draw lots, and the "lucky" winner would ask for more food at dinner.Guess who drew the short straw? Our boy Oliver. So there he is, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, walking up to Mr. Bumble with his empty bowl.You could've heard a pin drop in that place. The workhouse bigwigs? They looked like they'd just been slapped with a wet fish. Their faces went through more shades of purple than a sunset.So what do these geniuses do? They decide they need to get rid of this troublemaker. They offer five pounds - which was a lot of money back then - to anyone who'd take Oliver as an apprentice.And just like that, Oliver's future was up in the air. The workhouse had failed him, just like society had failed his mom. But maybe, just maybe, this could be his ticket out of there.But hold on to your hats, because things are about to get interesting. Word on the street is that there's this chimney sweep named Gamfield sniffing around the workhouse. He's got a reputation meaner than a junkyard dog, and he's looking for an apprentice. And guess who's caught his eye? Our Oliver. But something tells me this story's far from over. Gamfield might think he's got it all figured out, but he's in for a surprise. The question is, will it be good news for Oliver, or is he jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.