“Let me tell you this,” he said, still not looking at her. “I have never told this before to anyone.” He paused, but she said nothing. “Whipping a man is hard work. In the old days, on the plantations, they used to make a black man give the whippings. Black on black. Insult to injury.”

He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. “Sometimes, the man doing the whipping, he has to take a break. Let another fellow take over. Man can hurt his back, whipping another man. So for a few seconds each time, you think it’s over. They’re done. They’ve lost the stomach for it. There are women in the crowd, young children. Surely, they’ll put a stop to it.”

He forced a laugh, shook his head. “But you know what? They never lose the stomach for it—not in my experience. They want you to scream. They want you bawling like a baby. Especially the women.

“You’ve already pissed yourself,’’ he said. “And your pants are soaked with blood—feels like greasy water. Your shoes are full of blood, but it don’t do you no good in your shoes. You start to feel dizzy, your eyes go all swimmy, you wonder if you’re going to pass out and break your own arms.”

“Please, that’s enough.” Her insides were churning and her throat was dry. The room seemed suddenly too hot, yet she had gooseflesh on her arms and breasts. She realized all at once that her breasts were uncovered, her nipples erect against his ruined flesh, that she was standing at his back nearly naked. She grabbed her blouse and held it over herself.

“And if you’re mule-stubborn, you don’t cry out. You’re a stone man. Swallow the pain. Take the pain.” He punched the flat of his fist against his stomach. “Pack it into your stomach, close it like a fist. The pain makes you strong.

“But you’re getting weaker—can’t help it. Your spirit leaking out onto the ground. They can smell it. Start shouting louder. They can smell the kill. They’re all yelling now, everybody wants a piece of you. Man with the whip, he swings it harder. You feel the sting of the knot on your shoulder bones—all the flesh is peeled off. The bones make a different noise, hollow, like whacking a water pipe when it’s froze.”

He was talking so fast she could hardly keep up. “The crowd is moving now. Men and women both, fending off with their hands. See, you’re getting all over them. Little chunks of you—your flesh and blood, chips of your bones—flying into their eyes. Ruining their nice clothes. They jump back. The women squeal. Makes them crazy, they love it so. The men hoot. Strings of your flesh are hanging off the bushes. Coon dogs are fighting over the scraps.”