“Who is he?” I asked.
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. slave's nightmare
You will be, he said. When you wake up. You will be him forever. “Who is he
When at last I did wake—gasping, sweating, the iron collar cold against my throat—the first thing I saw was the master’s boots, standing by the door. Polished. Waiting. slave's nightmare
I turned back to the boy. He lifted his head. His eyes were mine. But empty. So empty. Like two holes burned in a blanket.