Suddenly, the horse jolted beneath me, yanking me from the past. My binds tightened and strained my little finger! Just like that, the nature of the wrongness came clear. The picture formed inside my blindfold and I took in every little detail. Obi, dressed in English fashion with a tall white collar framing his dark jaw and chin. Under his boots, a patch of snow. On his knees, his hands—unmangled and splayed. Two perfect Kongo stars on his English trousers.

His hands dated the picture to years before the end of the War, which begged a dangerous question. Why had the Great Obi Solomon been dressed like an Englishman before the Niagara Compromise was signed? The answer could upend the peace that anchored America. Terrified, I forced the matter from my mind as waves of heart-palpitating guilt attacked me.

My sins—selfishness, arrogance, betrayal—mocked me. Would Hannibal die in the Pit, or had Covington rallied the others to split her punishment between them? If Hannibal died, I would die—unforgiven. She’s yours, Jetson had said. Jetson, my only friend, was lost to me.

Hosea tried to feed me water and food he’d packed for the journey. Overwhelmed by guilt, I refused nourishment. I spat out the nuts and seeds. I turned my head so the water dripped down my chin.

“You school brats are all the same,” he said, breaking the silence. “You’ll drink when you’re thirsty.”

Only I didn’t. Eventually, he gave up trying and I dehydrated in the heat of the desert. My tongue dried, my fingers shriveled and my eyes ached. Perversely, beads of anxiety dribbled down my back, itching mercilessly.

At night, Hosea dismounted and lifted me down. He left me alone as he spoke to someone in the distance. I couldn’t guess who. As the sun set, he came back, and ordered me to sleep. The night grew cold as I lay on my side beside him. When his arm, draped with a blanket, came around my waist, I kicked him off and wormed away in the sand. Cursing, he gave up and slept.

My blindfold had shifted in the tussle and it clogged one nostril. The other was nearly filled with sand. As my breath grew thin, I tottered on the edge of demise—and I welcomed it. There are no thoughts on the brink of death, only wild imaginings. A hot continent of fauna and sugar cane, a high canopy of trees, a rippling undergrowth. Feathered wings unfurled and flew me to a place called home, where I ate a watermelon, seedless and waist high. I chewed and swallowed. Then, finally, I slept.

The Gust

THE GUST

The next morning, Hosea shook me. “Wake up, Cobane.”

I leapt into consciousness.

“Are you awake?” He ripped the blindfold away.