Anyone could love a person while they were singing and dancing on a stage. Jesse had learnt this lesson when he was seven years old. He and his family had been living in Braxton, Mississippi, before they’d made the decision to move north. Autumn 1914, a night so hot that after walking no more than a hundred paces Jesse’s shirt was as wet as if a cloud had followed his every step. His mother and father had made him promise that he would stay inside tonight, they both had to work and they were leaving him alone. But just last week, they’d run out of wood and his father had scolded him for not pulling his weight around the house and Jesse didn’t want to be told off again, deciding it would be better to find some more wood. So he’d been collecting timber without too much trouble since everything on the forest floor was a dry as thatch, bark coarse in his hands. Twigs crunched underfoot, the snap of dry wood, noises that echoed through the trees. Though he’d never admitted as much to his family, he’d always been afraid of the woods – his imagination ran free, his mind played tricks on him. He’d call himself silly. Sometimes he’d even call himself silly out loud.

—Jesse, don’t be scared. There’s bugs and mosquitoes in these woods, that’s all there is.

But when he stopped talking the sound of voices continued. He shook his head as though there were water in his ears. The voices continued, not one, but two or three.

—You’ve done it wrong!

—Like this!

—Stand there.

—Help me over here!

—That’s it.

—Get the camera ready!

He moved in one direction, deeper into the woods and the voices became softer. He changed direction, heading out of the woods, towards town. The voices became louder. He should’ve run home. He should’ve dropped his bundle of wood and run but he carried on, following the sounds.