I tried to wake. I always tried to wake. But the dream had teeth, and it would not let go. The boots in the boy’s hands became my hands. The lash on my back became my breath. The horn became the only music.
The chains never came off, not even in sleep. In the dream, I was running—always running—through a swamp that had no end. Moss hung from the trees like gray ghosts, and the mud pulled at my bare feet with every step. Behind me, I heard the dogs. Not barking, but breathing. Heavy, wet, hungry. And behind the dogs, the horn. That low, moaning horn that meant the master was coming. slave's nightmare
And the boy with my face was still there. Polishing. Smiling. I tried to wake
In the corner stood a boy. No older than ten. He wore a linen shirt stained with tobacco juice and something darker. He was polishing the master’s boots. Over and over. The same motion. Left, right, left, right. His wrists were ringed in scars. The boots in the boy’s hands became my hands
“Who is he?” I asked.