The door opened and two white men entered. They dragged another man and threw him on the ground. The man on the ground was black. His clothes were ripped, and his shirt was stained a deep red on the side. His wrists were tied with rope. He tried to get up but one of the white men immediately grabbed the whip from the table and struck him down. He fell instantly and gave out a muffled cry.

“What’s that?” one yelled, and the man on the ground winced quietly, appearing to want to deny them the satisfaction of hearing his pain. The white men loomed over him and Mira held her breath, afraid that they’d hear and be emboldened to do more damage.

The two white men were almost identical in their dress. Both wore dark vests over white collared shirts. Belt buckle badges flashed. Wide-brimmed hats covered their heads. Their boots were caked in mud and the bottoms of their pants were darker than the rest, damp from the river where they’d hunted. These men were pattyrollers, self-appointed with the task of maintaining order. They carried themselves with a sense of righteousness as they enforced their judgments.

“He’s one of them that orchestrated this mess. That’s what they’re saying. He’s the one.”

“What about the others?” a third voice called, and Mira saw Roman enter the room. He walked in leisurely, as if on a stroll, as if the entire day had been saved for this. He appeared unbothered by the stench in the room. The expression on his face was one of ambivalence, perhaps an air of slight annoyance that was directed more at the two white men.

Roman Woodsman. He was the common horror in all of this. He had orchestrated those women, gathered them together to profit off their bodies. He was the one who’d forced those men to dig what she’d thought were graves, but maybe the task was a futile one, the act itself meant as punishment. They were slaves after all, their life of labor worth more than death, and it was their labor that had made him. The bending of backs until they broke. Their blood had made his money.

“Soon enough we’ll get them all. Don’t worry,” one of them assured Roman.

“What happened to this one?” Roman asked.

“Got hit by one of the bullets. Won’t last much longer. He’ll be gone before he’s rightfully punished.”

“A shame,” Roman said calmly, his demeanor in complete opposition to the other two men’s.

“Where’d you find him?”

“Bill here found ’im out on Keener’s property, in the cornfields. Heading toward the swamps.”

“They’re all out there. We’ll wait ’em out.”

“We need to send a message,” urged the pattyroller who’d whipped the slave. “Make a public display for all the others so this never happens again.”