The television screen goes into standby mode while our debate continues.

"I propose you to act as if you're having a job interview for a position as cameraman in the making of a documentary about the slave emigration from the Freetown of New York. If your candidacy is accepted, you'll get the job and will be paid. How does that sound?"

"Okay, but..."

"Mr. Kanoa Doe, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Sky Freeman," she says, presenting her hand.

"Nice to meet you," I reply, playing along with the game.

"As I've already received your resume, I won't dwell on general information about you. We'll get right to the point: who is Kanoa?What are his interests ?"

I shiver for a moment, suddenly very cautious and tense. I expressed my concerns earlier about not answering this question any longer, and I am still at the same stage of introspection. However, when I imagine my parents when I think about Imane and Ho-Jin, Mohamed, I guess that some things remain constant.

"When I was younger... It is very childish, I admit, and these are very pretentious aspirations, not at all fitting with my... reserved character, but I wanted to become an "artist," to work in the entertainment field. Not just because it is one of the few areas where slaves have a modest chance to emancipate themselves, not for ease, not for living the good life... maybe a little for the recognition and the glory, but mostly because... I do not know how to express it correctly... Whether it was a drawing that I shared with my sister, the choreographed concertos that my brother and I gave to Mohamed, or the plays my foster parents invented for me, I shared intense things... with all these people."

"You play an instrument? It's quite funny to imagine you dancing..." Mistress Freeman laughs as she tries to get up without the help of her clutch.

"A Master had taught me some guitar chords and even offered the guitar at the end. I had to play while he received his guests; I amused those meetings. I played it for a while, but then Ho-Jin, my older brother, broke it... To be honest, I was more of a clumsy, bulky support dancer. But I think that my brother is very talented." I answer, offering my hand to support her.

We sit next to each other on the couch, before I judge that a reasonable distance must be put between us.

"And you still draw?"

She keeps questioning, holding my hand.

"I wrote, with my sister Imane, some kind of comics, years ago, that including original, not translated Carl Gustav Jung's, Thomas Sankara's, Mariama Ba's quotes. We had no idea what was implied, but we liked the words, so... it was enough. It allowed me to combine two activities that I appreciated a lot at the time: drawing and literature. I do not even know what we did with it..." I whisper looking at our interwined fingers.

"But why haven't you tried to do these activities again?" she says, very close to my face.

I feel her warm breath on my cheeks, but I cannot bring myself to look at her.

"Growing up, I convinced myself that it would not bring me anything. I was not good enough, far from it. Either way, the older a slave gets, the more physically difficult their tasks become. I was too tired coming home on Sundays to think about that."

"It's such a shame," Miss Freeman mutters.

I cannot tell if her disappointment comes from the fact that I just shared with her or the fact that I still refuse to lift my head. It seems that she finally lets go of my hand, out of frustration, and turns to pick up something from the feist on the floor.

She opens three packages of Doritos, Lays, and Pringles, which she hands me. I do not touch them; I am amazed by the ease with which the words come out of my mouth, in a surge of honesty that only Imane can get from me. I must not be reckless either, but the feeling is so pleasant that I still smile, sincerely, at Miss Freeman, and my heart begins to race.

In another world, another context, and another universe, I would have allowed myself to like Miss Freeman. Liking the glow that always dances in her eyes, liking her hair, her skin, her face, her lips, and especially her mind. However, there is no place in the tragedy that our lives take for this type of love. This feeling... is a mirage, an oasis, and another prison. I do not have a lot of experience with it; my relationship with Karen has broken me. I just recognize the symptoms. Do you seriously fall in love in two days? Is this love at first sight? Is it just a reaction of my heart in this time of confusion and vulnerability where all my feelings are heightened? In any case, I will not stand for my condition as slaves, and as in other aspects of my life, to mar this light. I savor the moments that we spend bathed in this faint glow and promise to cut short any misguidance.

"You told me classically about the major areas that we call art, although, for me, it's not limited to that. What do you think about cooking, for example? You talked about feelings; I think that the culinary art is one of the most powerful vectors of emotions that can exist," she declares, showing the chips in the palm of her hand.

"Of course, it was not an exhaustive list. I only spoke of what is accessible to me. Eating for me is more about survival than pleasure. I was only introduced to very basic cooking skills as it is part of my serving for the Masters. I randomly happen to have quite some knowledge in Jamaican cuisine because of a Jamaican Master whom I served for once. He was a passionate cook."

I notice that, once again, my answer makes her uncomfortable ; our bubble has burst, revealing us to the light of the reality.

"But I can say that I definitely agree with you... And I understood that you appreciate cinema?" I ask, almost desperate to bring back the lost lightness.

"The interview turned?" she says, smiling.

I sigh, relieved, and shrug, returning her grin.

"Okay. Well, yes, I love the strength of images and, in particular, those that are in motion."

"Would you see yourself making a career in this field?"

"No!" she answers with a laugh. "I'm already your future employer, remember ?"

I smile again.

"No, I would like to be a lawyer, like my father. As cheesy as it sounds, to defend the rights of the slaves."

She is the daughter of two freed slaves who became a doctor and a lawyer — the real enslaved American Dream, almost cliché. She yearns for great things, and her life without the tattoo of the slaves on her left arm seems far from her parents' misery.

"But my mother keeps telling me that with my origins which will undergo post-slavery, my leg, somewhat my skin color, that vitiligo hidden under this heavy amount of makeup, and that in addition, being a woman... a woman not so pretty... It's almost impossible, and that's the reason why I shouldn't give up. You know... It's not easy for all the Masters."

It is necessary to distinguish the hatred towards the slaves from racism, xenophobia, and sexism, strictly speaking. In our society, those are distinct phenomena in the best of the cases and superimposed for the most unlucky. Even among the slaves, there is a hierarchy, and it is better to be a heterosexual, cisgender male from European ascendance to hope for better treatment. There are, moreover, remarkably more women than men slaves. A significant selection bias documented by the covidic literature that has repercussions on the number of violence suffered by these same slaves. Misogynist Masters make no secret that they prefer to be dependent on female slaves, who are easier to comply with.

I am not happy that the Masters endure the same evils as we do, but it underscores and demonstrates the fact that BC19 cannot solve problems related to the deep nature of the human condition. Let the slaves neither relieve nor heal, in any way, the pain and hatred of the citizens.

Faced with my perplexed expression that she must attribute to what she has just said, Miss Freeman tries to make up for me.

"But I dare not even imagine what the slaves must endure. It was so inappropriate for me to complain like that. I'm sorry... I was wondering: I don't know how to ask you that without it sounding very segregationist, but how come that you are so... educated? Did you learn to read, write, count on your own like my father, or did a Master teach you like my mother? I mean, you talk with a lot of... You're very prudent, maybe paying too much attention to your language. Do you think, do you cogitate, with such difficult words too? I have noticed that freed slaves, like my parents, are often very picky and inflexible with their vocabulary. My mother criticizes me all the time for speaking vulgarly. Lately, with you, I unconsciously find myself making efforts. Besides, it's presumptuous of me to think that you're only doing this for the Masters, but if you were to be, you don't need to do the same with me."

She hides her face in her hands ; it is my turn to be frustrated.

"Until recently, Mohamed, who already knew my parents, held the representative title of Mayor of Freetown. You know his writings, his essays, his pleadings, which retrace his story well, so you also know that it was as a result of his refusal to dispose of a slave for his civic duty that he became a slave himself. That slave was actually my father. Mohamed, therefore, lost everything, starting with his tattoo of the Americans, traditionally replaced among downgraded citizens, by arrows. My father, touched by his gesture, then refused to take his place as a Master and his post as a journalist for The New York Times, while a free training position was also granted to him."

I put my hands around my neck as to stop this sudden burst of words. My Mistress' hands come to the rescue, encouraging me to continue.

"All of this happened long before I was born. Due to the special circumstances in which he joined Freetown, Mohamed had maintained fairly close ties with several Masters-Activists and former slaves. In honor of the time when he was my parents' comrade in their battles, he sent me as much as he could to these Masters. I was only doing small chores, errands, cleaning, and had plenty of time, in the end, to delve into their books and notebooks to whet my curiosity. They were journalists most often, but also doctors, historians, painters, researchers, dancers, writers... Mohamed took care of what was missing, what they could not teach us as Masters. He always wanted us to make the most of the enfranchisement and come prepared to face, to dispel the prejudices of post-slavery. So I would say that it is not just to please the Masters that I speak in a very, maybe too formal speech."

"In any case, with that "slightly refined, a tiny bit polished language," you must sound like a much older person, or else just mocking one. You never cuss? Never? That... that, sorry, must be hard to hold back all the time, especially with what the Masters do sometimes... No n-word, no slangs either, when most are from the slave background? Ah, that's another example of cultural appropriation! But don't you think that bowing to the expectations of society as a freedman — I know, just as my family and I do — contributes to the perpetuation of the post-slavery's practice?"

A few steps can be heard from the elevator. Instinctively, I get up and move away from Miss Freeman whose hand was still in mine.

"Do not forget the things that remained in the box, Celeste," Mr. Freeman hisses. "Oh, Sky, Kanoa... did you have a good day?"

Mistress Freeman answers calmly, but I stammer barely intelligible words, feeling the fire rising to my cheeks. I act like a surprised child, caught doing something terrible.

"You're finally leaving," Miss Freeman says.

"Yes, I have to meet a friend in Chicago who could help with our case."

"So, will you still be living here on your return? Will you even come back home?"

Mr. Freeman glances briefly in my direction, on his guard.

"What is that, so suddenly? We have already talked about it with your mother, Sky."

"I was just surprised to see you leave "her new room" like a thief this morning."

"Watch your language, Sky! I understand that this whole situation is difficult for you, but that is no reason for you to be disrespectful!" Mr. Freeman fires. "Kanoa, can you give us a moment?"

"This is my slave," my Mistress retorts. "He will do what I ask him to do, and I want him to stay!"

There is a heavy silence. I only detect fury and sadness in Miss... Mistress Freeman's eyes, the usual spark dancing in her dark irises, is completely extinguished. I quickly stop supporting her gaze.

"Kanoa, I... I'm sorry," she says. "It's not..."

"I will be in... the ... bedroom."

I shake my head and walk down the hall without another glance at this wayward child. I feel stupid, betrayed, and naive.

Once in the room, I take out my phone and reconnect it to the charger, made available by Celeste. Its battery, taken from the bottom of a charity box, gave me a concise period of independence.

I still have missing calls from Rachel and Isaac. I first log into the encrypted chat application. Isaac left one last message. A short text indicates that it is no longer possible to participate in the conversation. The group and all its exchanges would be destroyed before midnight: if someone tried to take screenshots, the others would be notified, and sanctions would be taken against the user.

Isaac's message gave a time, a meeting place, and an ultimatum. It is our last chance to escape. I put my phone down. The Form of Mistress Salvi scrutinizes me from the dresser. The Form is less heavy, yet she emits more and more sounds. So, she giggles again. She does not care how my resolutions have, in such a short time, overwhelmed me, swept me away, tossed me about, and made me spin like a weather vane.

I wanted to get out of these troubled waters by hasty solutions, which implied a minimum of my conscience's positioning of moral gymnastics. However, as we prepare again to face those who put us in such a situation, I cannot remain passive, refuse responsibilities, let myself be carried away, and take refuge behind my father's ethical values. I have to protect us no matter what. It would be a lie to say that I am no longer afraid, but my anger with the Grinbergs goes beyond that feeling. With disgust, I see in my thoughts the shadow of an uncontrollable desire for revenge.

The Form is laughing now. She is laughing softly.