He pulls the whip back and when it crests in the air he brings it down again. Her wail is terrible.

Then I notice the green headscarf. The one I gave Sarah. The one she’s worn every single day since, even though she’s been angry with me. My breath stops.

When the overseer’s arm arches back again and his whip dances in the air, I move. I don’t remember dropping the bucket, but I’m aware I’m running without it. Sprinting to the overseer. The whip arches down again, clawing at her back, making her scream out in a pitiful howl of agony, seconds before I crash into the brute. He cries out as I tackle him. I rip the whip from his hands and jump up. Swinging it back, I bring it crashing down across his prone body. His shriek of surprise and terror eggs me on and I slash at him again, harder, ripping through his shirt and drawing blood. He rolls into a ball, shielding his head with his hands and I whip him again. I hear Sarah’s voice begging me to stop. I look up and I see her in front of me, arms outstretched, fingers splayed. I can’t understand it. She’s dressed, and there’s no blood. I look over to the woman chained to the sycamore tree with her back open and her blood staining the skirts around her waist. I can see now, even from behind, that she isn’t Sarah, but I walk around the side of the tree to where her face is turned anyway. It’s Annie. The one I’m certain stole my water pouch.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the overseer blusters and bellows from the ground. “I have every right to whip this thieving nigra, you son of a bitch! Mister Johnson said so.” He throws a silver snuff box at my chest that I don’t move to catch. It falls to the ground, spilling the snuff in the dirt. “You’re going to pay for this, Taylor.” He labors to his feet, shaking with rage. I can read the hate in his eyes and in the twist of his mouth as he shouts at me, his bellowed words mixing with his spit, “You hear me? You nigra-loving son of a bitch!”

Beside me, Annie whimpers. The bloody lashes crisscross her back. And Mister Johnson has allowed this. I can’t stop it; this is Southern law and plantation justice. I feel Sarah’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at her. I drop the whip in the grass and walk away.

Behind me, I hear the overseer demand that Annie be stripped of her skirts.

“Now, we’re gonna have a real whipping,” he says.

When the lash cracks again, her scream scrapes at my bones. I force myself not to turn around. I keep walking with guilty, helpless steps, knowing that Annie will pay for what I did. And I can’t let go of what I felt when I thought it was Sarah chained to the whipping tree. I’m breathing hard, walking fast, trying to get away from the sound of it: the whipping and the screaming.