The exhaustion was so profound Carlos could barely think. When work finally ended, his bare feet carried him on sheer inertia, following the flow of exhausted bodies toward the slave quarters. The long shack, with its cracked mud walls and straw roof, loomed like a shadow against the twilight's orange sky.

  Inside, the air was heavy and stagnant. The first thing to hit him was the rich smell of cooked beans, wafting from large iron pots suspended over low fires. The aroma made his empty stomach clench with a loud growl. But within seconds, another odor infiltrated, aggressive and nauseating: the sickly-sweet stench of shit. Literally. Looking toward the back of the windowless shack, he saw the source. A simple hole dug in the dirt floor, where a man squatted without a shred of privacy.

  My God... are we supposed to eat in here, with that smell? That's not a toilet, it's a hole in the ground! You can't call this hygienic. Despair tightened his throat. I'm starving, but I need to get out of here to eat.

  He'd barely finished the thought when a harsh creak echoed behind him. The large wooden gate of the senzala was shut, and the heavy wooden bolt slid into place. Carlos approached it, his hands touching the rough timber. From outside, he heard voices:

  "Everyone in?" asked a rough voice. "Can't risk another runner. The next one to vanish costs us a year's pay."

  Carlos's heart sank. He stepped back from the gate, a suffocating feeling of imprisonment closing in on him. No way... They're seriously going to make me eat in here? Ugh... So this is my new reality. The slave quarters. My 'home.' He took a deep breath, the mixed stench filling his lungs. Fine. I just need to eat.

  Turning his attention to the pots, he saw elderly women, their faces etched with hardship, stirring the contents with wooden spoons. The "dinner" was a depressing sight: watery beans in one pot and, on the ground, a wooden basin full of cassava flour. There were no tables or benches; the enslaved people ate sitting on the dirt or standing, balancing their bowls.

  I won't complain. I'm so hungry I'd eat anything.

  Finding a stack of chipped wooden bowls, Carlos took one and approached one of the women. She was older, her gray hair tucked under a faded purple headscarf. Her eyes held the infinite patience of one who had seen it all.

  "You must be the new wretch they found out there," she said, filling his bowl with beans. Her fingers were calloused but steady.

  "Had the bad luck to end up here, boy. This is one of the richest sugar mills in the region." She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. Carlos, already eating with his hands like a starved animal, leaned in to listen.

  "But the owner is the stingiest of them all. They only give us these beans, flour, and some old jerky for salt. Not even the scraps from the Big House come to us. They go to the dogs. We can't plant anything, only cane. Even the free men complain about the master's greed."

  She straightened up, resuming her normal tone. "But, welcome to Master Jorge's mill. You can call me Auntie Vera. I work in the Big House, cooking, cleaning, minding the children... a bit of everything."

  Carlos quickly swallowed a handful of beans, nearly choking.

  "My name is Carlos. Pleasure to meet you, ma'am... I mean, Auntie Vera."

  "Eat slowly, young man. I know they starve you. I heard all about it. I'm the oldest here, I know everyone. Since Master Jorge dines early, I have time to learn the news. Any questions, just ask."

  Auntie Vera lowered her voice again, her eyes glinting with a spark of rebellion.

  "And I have a dessert for you and the others who were brought back. My grandson managed to get some cashews from the tree near the lake. While everyone was distracted with the spectacle at the whipping post, he climbed up and got a bunch. Hid them here. I figure you all need it more than anyone."

  She talks a lot, Carlos thought, but she's a blessing to have here. It's amazing she can still find kindness in the middle of so much misery.

  The beans were plain, unseasoned, with a few tiny pieces of tough jerky. But his hunger was so great it was the best flavor he'd ever tasted. A week of this and I'll be sick of it, but for today... it's divine. And there are cashews. Maybe I can ask for more.

  "Thank you so much for the cashew, Auntie Vera," he whispered. "Can I have another portion?"

  She smiled, refilling his bowl.

  "Of course! You really were starving, huh? Wow, this reminds me of that poor girl, Tassi. She must be so hungry too, and Master Jorge treated her so cruelly... The chapel priest came this afternoon to beg them to at least give her some food, saying God doesn't like his people to starve."

  So her name is Tassi, Carlos registered mentally, and I'm in her debt.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The comment about God provoked a bitter internal laugh. I'm pretty sure God wouldn't approve of slavery either. But a little racism and economic incentive are enough to make any church forget its principles.

  "But the priest's pleas didn't work," Auntie Vera continued with a sigh of resignation. "The master doesn't have much God in his heart. If he did, he'd let us plant a vegetable garden. At other mills, they can. And Tassi, at least, would get something to eat."

  "It's a shame what happened to us," said Carlos, his voice laden with genuine empathy.

  "Yeah, it is, boy. I'm too old to dream of freedom now, but I wish at least my grandson could be free. For now, all we have left is to pray and hope. And while we wait, I can tell you about everyone here."

  Suddenly, a man approached silently.

  "Easy, Auntie. You're chattering too much. I bet he's tired after work. The first day is always the worst."

  Carlos turned and saw a tall, lean man. His eyes were a startling blue, a rarity in a Black face. He was carefully holding a small clay pot.

  "Pleasure, Carlos. I was listening to the conversation... or rather, Auntie's chattering. My name is Pedro."

  Carlos, who had already cleaned his bowl, smiled with tired gratitude.

  "Not at all, I'm loving listening to her. My day was horrible. I'm in an unknown place, working like an animal. It's good to find someone who can still smile, even if it's just a little."

  Auntie Vera seemed touched but got up.

  "Thank you, boy, but Pedro is right, I've talked too much. It's late for me, and I have to wake up before the rooster crows to make the boss's breakfast. Good night."

  Before leaving, she leaned into Carlos's ear, her whisper warm and conspiratorial:

  "I'll leave the cashews where you're going to sleep. I know where everyone sleeps, so I'll leave them in an empty spot. And don't worry, no one will steal them. Here, we have honor."

  They said their goodbyes, and Carlos watched as she walked away. To his surprise, she didn't go to a separate room. Instead, she headed for a row of straw piles scattered on the dirt floor – the "mattresses" of the senzala. He saw her take a fruit from a specific pile and carry it to another "bed" before lying down on her own heap of straw.

  So, everyone sleeps together. Zero privacy. And she put the cashews... right near the stinking 'bathroom' hole. Now I understand why that corner is empty.

  Noticing Carlos was lost in thought, Pedro spoke again.

  "I got some ointment from the priest for the whip lashes. I've already treated everyone and was waiting for you to finish eating."

  "Thank you," said Carlos with genuine relief. "Working with my back like this was hell, especially under that sun."

  Pedro opened the clay pot. Inside was a thick, gunk, bluish in color with greenish spots.

  "Turn around. I'll apply this."

  Carlos obeyed. The ointment stung on contact, but the sensation was a welcome relief compared to the throbbing pain of his wounds.

  There are still good people here. Tomorrow, I need to find Tassi and thank her. And I wonder what this gunk is... I hope it works. Medicine in this era isn't famous for its efficacy.

  The application didn't take long.

  "Done."

  "Can you give me some for my head?" Carlos asked. "The bounty hunter hit me with something. And I have some burns on my arms."

  "Sounds like it was a nasty fight to capture you. Here." Pedro handed over the pot, and Carlos applied the substance to his scalp and arms before returning it.

  "You know, I'd love to talk more," Pedro said, covering the pot, "but I'm dead tired. I work in the Big House too, and the day starts early. Good night."

  Carlos returned the wish and headed to his designated corner – a heap of straw near the stinking hole. He sat down and began to eat the cashew, its tart sweetness a heavenly contrast to the bland meal. As he ate, his mind worked.

  First, I need to invent a story for the cell phone and clothes. Then, I need to find a way to escape. Security is tight now, but... I can't live like this. I'd rather die trying.

  As he plotted, exhaustion finally overtook him, and he fell asleep on the hard ground, the taste of cashew still on his tongue.

  ***

  Dawn brought no relief, only pain. Every muscle in Carlos's body protested as he opened his eyes.

  Feels like I slept on rocks! He lightly knocked on the straw-covered floor. Yeah, it's literally hard as stone. And this straw itches like crazy!

  "Wait..." He tried to move and realized something. "My back... doesn't hurt like yesterday. My arms don't either."

  Lifting his hand, he carefully touched his back. Instead of raw, bloody flesh, his fingertips found only dry scabs over his skin.

  Whoa, the wounds have healed this much? Only my leg is still bad. Was it that strange ointment? I need to ask Pedro about it later.

  As he tried to get up for breakfast, a sharp pang in his right leg almost made him fall.

  "Dammit! My leg is horrible."

  Standing, he examined the injury. There was an ugly, inflamed gash right where Jairo's whip had struck him.

  I don't remember it being this bad yesterday. How did it get worse overnight? I need that miracle ointment again.

  He looked around, but Pedro wasn't visible. He would have to wait.

  Gradually, the slave quarters awoke. "Breakfast" was a depressing repeat of dinner: beans and flour. They had barely finished when the gate creaked open. An overseer entered, his silhouette blocking the morning light.

  "Work time! No slacking!" his voice boomed through the shack.

  Carlos recognized the voice and face immediately. It was Jairo. A chill ran down his spine, but he stood up, ready to follow the herd. However, as he took his first limping step out of the senzala, the overseer pointed a bony finger right at him.

  "You! Black! Get over here!"

  Carlos stopped, his heart pounding.

  "What's your name?" Jairo asked, a cruel smile on his lips. "Need to know, with so many blacks around here. If I just yell 'black,' no one knows who I'm talking to."

  "... Carlos."

  "So, Carlos," Jairo said, stepping so close his sour breath hit Carlos's face. "The master wants to see you. I had a chat about you yesterday, and he's... curious to hear your story. Let's see if you lie to him like you lied to me. Now, come with me. And don't do anything stupid."