Nightmare: Slave's

He turned to see Sarah, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the dying embers in the hearth. She looked tired, her eyes heavy with sleep, but her gaze was anchor enough.

When at last I did wake—gasping, sweating, the iron collar cold against my throat—the first thing I saw was the master’s boots, standing by the door. Polished. Waiting. slave's nightmare

Then, a cool hand touched his forehead.

I turned back to the boy. He lifted his head. His eyes were mine. But empty. So empty. Like two holes burned in a blanket. He turned to see Sarah, her face illuminated

In the dream, it was always morning. But not the gray, hopeful morning of the birds; it was the harsh, sudden morning of the overseer’s horn. Polished

He looked around the cabin. The walls were rough-hewn wood, but they were not moving. The door was shut, but not locked from the outside—they had a rare master who trusted the lock on the inside, though it was a meager comfort.