Ma’am, you let the niggers

leave the fields early.

I thought you’d be happy, Mr. Jones.

Aren’t such measures part of

your economic philosophy?

An hour more or less can hardly matter.

Now—this cold spell is unusual,

but not as threatening

as you make it out to be.

Well, the niggers sure are spooked.

They’re just sitting around or looking off

in the sky. Matter of fact, they ain’t even

been tending their own gardens.

This late in the season

I don’t imagine there’s much left to tend.

And that crazy slave, the one’s

got the shack out in the swamp—

Yes’m, that’s the one I mean.

No one’s seen hide nor hair of him.

Hector’s in the habit of appearing

whenever he has snakes to parade.

Cold weather makes the snakes scarce.

Is that all, Jones?

Yes, Ma’am, as you please.

Good evening, Miss Jennings.

He’s just waiting till the cold clears.

He’ll be alright.

She looked down at her own head,

cradling it in her cupped palms,

and cried and cried herself to sleep

beneath a giant oak tree.

No one heard her. No one came.

And so she perished,

and her body was never found,

even to this day.