“But the rest got it worse, miss. Lou.” He bit back another whimper.
“The rest?” I froze as it hit me: he wasn’t just any runaway.
I remembered the viral clip I’d seen—shaky footage from someone’s phone on campus, smoke rising thick from the hillsbehind the mining compound, police with helmets and rifles pushing slaves in chains down the slope like cattle. The wordsTerrorist Slave Uprisingflashed across the screen in red, followed by a thinkpiece from some sanctimonious columnist in thick glasses entitled "Polls Say People Aren’t Worried About the Pennsylvania Slave Uprising. Here’s Why They Should Be.” Beside me, Rebekah had muttered something about “media manipulation” and turned away, but I just sat there, my blood cold.
Now I understood why. This boy—burnt, bleeding, mangled—must have been one of the ones they reported escaped. One of three.
The rest hadn’t been so lucky, or so good.
I looked down at his bandaged arm, the stump where a hand should’ve been, and it clicked. When that accident had mangled his arm, the chip had gone with it. It was the only reason he hadn’t been tracked down and dragged back. And ironically, the only reason he now had a chance.
“They said they’ll start with the ringleader, miss—Lou. Garotte him in front of everyone.”
They’re afraid,I thought, but didn’t say it. That was good. Dangerous, but good.
“Ringleader?”
“This guy—this guy who planned the whole thing.” He swallowed thickly. “He wasn’t much older than me. He could read, though, and knew all kinds of things. Helped me learn, helped me make quota. Gave up his rations so I could eat, at the start. And—he saved my life. Took forty lashes for me without blinking. But—” he swallowed. “Now they're calling him dangerous.”
“Didhehave a name?” I asked, not exactly sure why, just knowing it mattered.
“Someone gave him the name Riven.”
I squeezed the roll of bandages tighter.
“His old master, or someone. And we found out. So that's what we called him, even though he told us not to.” He clamped down hard on his lip, the memory apparently too strong to bear.
“It’s okay," I told him again, trying to breathe and focus on the matter at hand. This wasn’t about me, or the way that name dislodged something about Rebekah’s past. "Cry. It doesn’t make you any less brave.”
The kid jerked. “Brave?”
“Yeah.”
When they met mine, his blue eyes were wide. “No one’s ever called me that before.”
30
HER
Well, it was late November again, and this was college now. Forget the frat parties and coordinated pink dorm furniture I’d imagined at a simpler, sillier time. When I wasn’t poring over my notes for biochemistry or behavioral psychology, it was now clandestine abolitionist meetings, long hours in the science library, and aprons sodden with spilled vanilla milk. But also late nights in the apartment guzzling bubbly, attempting to learn to cook (Rebekah wasn’t much better, to my relief), and watching movies—not all of them intellectually deep—with Rebekah. Three mornings a week, I took the Red Line to the South End, where I learned to wash away blood, dry tears, and never ask. Most of the time, I left feeling powerless in the face of the kind of injustice it felt impossible to ever move the needle on, but to be fair, so did everyone else there, and when I went home on the subway, I felt both supremely alone and profoundly tuned in. And I didn’t regret a thing.
One night in November, we watched a live news feed on Rebekah's laptop while curled on the sofa, one in which her mother, all poise and polish and pantsuits, declared:
“Struggling families deserve support as much as the rich. A home helper, a caregiver, a strong set of hands. And slaves deserve to live stable, calm, industrious lives. Lives that prevent tragedies like the one in the mine in Pennsylvania. My plan ensures dignity, security, and order—for everyone.” Bunched on a set of bleachers behind her, a crowd of faces, adults and children, hanging on her every word, jiggling signs reading:Vote Elizabeth Roth for Senate — A Slave for Every Family!
Rebekah watched in silence, her expression unreadable.
“You okay?”
She didn't look away from the screen. “You ever feel like you’re a ghost in your own life?”
Later that same night, out on the balcony, I passed her the joint. She passed me her sweater. We didn’t talk about the speech, but it hung between us anyway, just like the cold, and the smoke curling into the dark.
“I didn't think this was how it would be, either," I said. Rebekah closed her laptop and passed back the joint—which, unashamedly, really did help my anxiety more than anything else I’d tried—and we both watched Brighton, its lights bouncing off the weathered brownstone, hidden lanes and alleys twisting away toward the river, hiding its murky secrets and revealing its ceaseless brilliance.
Rebekah exhaled, and I nudged her shoulder with mine. “Hey. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. We both are. Maybe it’s not perfect, but you said so yourself. What we’re doing—it matters.”
It was a lie. Because Rebekah and I, we were just the same. I’d thoughthewas the ghost.
