From the corner of my eye, I saw Jetson stand, ready to intervene. Hannibal, thank God, took hold of his arm. She could not stop him for long, I knew. Jetson, my comrade, would not be stopped. A new fear tickled my throat. I could not draw this battle out. For his sake, I had to finish it—and quick. I needed a way out.

With one good eye, I turned to study Jones at her desk. She wiped her soiled face and, unhurried, dropped the cloth in the trash. She opened a drawer and removed a chestnut box, too small to be a weapon. Almost gently, she plucked from it a ring, large and gilded. She slid the ring on her big finger, then returned to pluck another, even larger than the first. One by one, she covered her hands, two and three to a knuckle. She had a dutiful air, as if, by her logic, I’d signed my own death warrant. I wanted to die, needed to, for the greater good. She came forth, armed. I met her gaze. She stopped.

The corners of my swollen mouth turned up, gleefully. I bared my teeth, stifling a giggle. I imagine she thought I was out of my mind for smiling; I laughed all the more. In truth, dear reader, I was untethered. The Niagara Compromise remained the law for many more months. But on that day, I found my freedom. Trussed up in the corner of the Schoolhouse, my back against a wall, I roamed in plains as wide as my own heart.

Jones regained herself and pounced upon me. She wailed and I leered up, unafraid of pain and death—I was the very face of madness. Finally, her grip slipped and her next blow, a cut to my chin, drove me down to the ground.

“Do you need more?” she barked from above, shaking her fist.

To answer, I looked up, winked, exposed my bloody teeth.

“Have it your way, you stupid feral.”

She was tired. Her breath labored and she braced her palms on the wall to steady her girth. I curled into a tight ball, willing her to do her worst—to kick like a donkey. Just as I hoped, she drew one black boot back, higher and higher. Her leg went back and her body tipped forward, one leg held her aright. I watched and waited. Up, up, it went. She tipped. Nearly there. Almost there—there.

With a guttural cry, I uncurled, jackknifing like a piston. My foot hit the knee of her standing leg. It bent backward with a sickening snap. Ligaments, tendons, bones gave way. Jones flew forward, airborne. Her crown hit the wall. Her left eye gouged on the wainscot. I rolled out of her way, just in time. With one last crunch she hit the ground, cold.

* * *

Silence reigned. My chest heaved. The others held their breath. I shifted aright. “Covington, untie my hands.”