On the steamship to Africa, Miss Waldron posed as Willoughby Lowe’s personal secretary. This did not fool anyone. At night their moans and lovers’ curses could be heard throughout the ship, vibrating along the edges of the steel hull, echoing back and forth into the furnace of the coal room, singing out across the waves like whale songs from the propeller. The expedition team scientists tossed and turned in their cabins, and the crew groaned down in their bunks.

When they arrived, Miss Waldron realized that everything in Africa was covered with dust. The roads, the animals, even the people. Willoughby told her they used it to ward off flies. Miss Waldron saw the point, and quickly traded her dresses for native clothes—soft layers of light woven cotton. Her high-heeled shoes were used to bargain with the porters, and she slipped into a pair of Willoughby’s boots.

The scientists had arranged for everything in advance. As they divided their boxes of sample test tubes and books on species identification between the porters, a guide appeared. Willoughby seemed to know him, and after a friendly exchange of greetings, he whispered to Miss Waldron that the man was a slave. Once they were in the jungle, the slave coordinated everything—where the tents should go, how the food should be stored, and when to start the fire. As darkness came and they sat around the flames, Miss Waldron listened to the sounds of the forest and studied him.

It seemed as though his skin had been peeled off in strips. She found it hard to distinguish his nostrils among the lines of pink and brown and black—bubbly sections of destroyed muscle and scar tissue crisscrossed his body like worms. Despite this she could see underneath that he was strong, about thirty years old. His eyes were large and bright, and she noticed that when he closed them, the lids disappeared into the tangle of his face.

He did not sleep with the rest of them. Once the team had retired, the slave climbed a tree and tied a hammock among the branches. From there he kept watch over the fire. He had a machete beside him to kill the snakes and a shotgun to frighten poachers.

In the morning Miss Waldron watched Willoughby Lowe unpack his guns. She asked about the slave’s face and was told he’d been locked in an oven. His master had caught him trying to escape, and by the time he was dragged out from the cinders, most of his skin was gone. The slave was brought back to life by a witch doctor and later sold to one of the directors of the Natural History Museum, who used him as a point man for the African expeditions.

Why don’t you release him? Miss Waldron asked.

He’s got a much better life with us, said Willoughby.