Mira could not see into the hole, only the end of the shovels as the dirt they carried was released into the air, but she did see the men who’d climbed out to rest. They were dressed in plain clothes, mostly torn rags that were darkened with sweat and covered in dirt. Many didn’t have shoes, walking through the grass and mud barefoot. When they climbed from the hole, they glanced up at the sky, their eyes searching for something to deliver them. Nothing ever came and soon they were told to get back to work, and they fell once more into the hole, continuing on with their pace.

Hoe, Emma, hoe. You turn around, dig a hole in the ground. Hoe, Emma, hoe. He can ride on and leave me be.

This was not like the reenactments she’d witnessed before. These men were gaunt, nearly starved, mud-slicked skin shining as they kept on. She waited for them to falter or stop, to say they’d had enough. They’d been digging all morning by the looks of the hole; it must be past break time now and any minute she’d hear the call letting them know to quit. Mira listened, but as the time passed she was forced to face the possibility that it wouldn’t come at all.

One man climbed out of the hole and pulled off his shirt to clean his face. Mira saw a mark on his chest, the skin dark and raised, a wound long-since healed but the mark distinct, the lines embedded in the shape of the letter, a branding to warn others to whom he belonged.