I have already served in this neighborhood years ago; I do not expect it to be so different. The Masters, whom I barely got to exchange with, prided themselves on having strong opinions on slavery. I learned there, from a young wealthy Master's preceptor, to read, write, and count. Something about Mohamed being indebted to him made him particularly sensitive to our situation.

"Can I help you?" the lady at the reception asks. "Where did Walt go? How could he let something like you in without warning me?"

"I am coming for Mistress Sky Freeman," I say, rummaging through my bag.

I hand her the files. She scans, goes through it quickly, whispers a little comment that makes her smile, and gives me the papers. She turns around and grabs a phone to reach my Mistress.

"This will be the very last floor. The elevator has already been programmed; there will be nothing to do. Do not touch anything, any button."

The elevator in question leads directly to the loft. I am immediately struck by the light tones, the clean style, and the cold colors of the decoration, contrasting with the rather old-looking furniture. The large room in front of me is bathed in light by the immense bay windows. Mohamed taught me to be sensitive to this kind of thing when I arrive at the Masters'; they reveal a lot about them. The mistake that slaves often make is to think rudely and enviously of these lavish things as if it were a personal insult to them and their modest origins, on which they sometimes feel like this "debauched plethora" was built on.

In the middle of the luxurious kitchen stands a figure, a little curved. When our eyes meet, she straightens up completely and walks towards me. I then notice the crutch that she is leaning on.

"Just come; I think it will go faster."

"I am sorry, but I cannot."

She questions me with her eyes.

"You must introduce me into your home, according to the segregationist rite."

"Oh, yes, my mother told me about it. Excuse me; this is my first time... You actually are my first slave."

She comes to greet me, giving me her permission, in a rather awkward way. She forgets some signs, gestures, and words of the protocol.

"I'm not very comfortable with this whole situation, sorry." She smiled shyly, and I try too. I wanted to hide my surprise when my gaze fell on her legs, revealed by her skirt.

True emotions should never be shown to the Masters. The slave guesses their expectations, adapts to them, is friendly, distant, reverent, or invisible. It is an exercise that I master but made noticeably more difficult because of my anxieties concerning Mistress Salvi.

Behind my new Mistress, I see a shadow moving quickly. The soft body of the feline approaches her feet, bringing my attention back to her wounds. I have an immediate surge of hostility towards this animal, which seems to taunt me of its superior civil rights.

"It's Zaz. He's pretty timid usually. Oh... By the way, I completely forgot to introduce myself: my name is Sky Freeman. It's not my real name, but "Sky" is less "communitarized" and closer to the American standards and expectations. And yes, as my last name suggests, my parents were slaves too. My mother was selected by the Lottery, and my father was freed through an enfranchisement scholarship. She's Bengali and he's half Indonesian, half Filipino. Unfortunately, I don't speak any of these languages. It didn't fit with my parents' assimilation project..."

"Freeman" and "Kim" — due to the high proportionality of North Korean slaves in the Freetown of New York, and by agreements with the government of Kim Il-sung; going back to the armistice promise, and the ceasefire of the Korean War —, are the names most commonly given by the administration of BC19 to the freed slaves. Just like "Doe" is, by definition, that of any slave circulating in English speaking enslaving nations, on the official paperwork.

This is why, as an example, even though they like to be called "Grinberg," in honor of Isaac's grandmother, who was not a slave, Rachel and her husband have on their slave papers the name "Doe." A lot of slaves try to keep their initial name, even if it requires to add after it that discriminating particle, "Doe," which has the power to de-individualize, to erase, remove any history or identity. I, Kanoa Doe, have been dispossessed the privilege of bearing, uniquely, the lost names of my ancestors long before my parents committed their crimes. My long pedigree as a slave dates back to well before centralization and institutionalization by BC19. My family name got lost during those times. The correlation between our inferior race and COVID-19 developed alongside medical and genetic advances at the end of the 20th century, giving a solid scientific basis to slave ideology.

However, the practice of slavery must go back even before ancient Greece. It never stopped, and I am afraid that it will never. See how small the steps are: it took about a hundred years for the slaves during the Middle Ages area to have the right, for those who could write, to put an uppercase in front of their forename.

"My name's Kanoa," I simply say.

I did not take the time to think about this formulation, which is decisive for the rest of our interactions this week. I clear my throat, discreetly, to call myself to order.

An embarrassed silence settles. Mistress Freeman leans on her crutch to take a few steps towards Zaz, who walks away to another room.

"Do you need help, Mistress?" I ask, moving towards her.

"Please, don't call me like that. Don't be that formal either."

"I am sorry, Madam... Miss Freeman, but I don't have the right not to."

By abuse of language, we sometimes call "Master" or "Mistress," any citizen who wears the tattoo of the American, even when we do not serve for them. In truth, this terminology is reserved for the designated Weekmasters and Weekmistresses.

Mistress Salvi... Mrs. Salvi cared about this formality, and these types of subtleties, more than anything else, regarding my serving for her.

"I guess we'll go with that for now," she sighs. "I'll show you around so that you can take your marks more easily. We'll talk about the details later," she adds, lifting the crutch.

She goes first towards the kitchen.

"This is my favorite room, as you might have guessed," she says with a sad smile, running a hand over her stomach. "You don't have to ask me if you need something; you can help yourself."

The doors of the refrigerator are transparent, revealing fruits, vegetables, meats, yogurts in impressive quantities. She opens several cupboards, which are also filled with treats, chocolate, jellybean, and crackers.

"My parents rarely eat at home. Only Celeste, the housekeeper, uses the utensils. They are in the drawer behind you, in case you need them."

I have another fake smile. I cannot resist, but frown. It is a trap. The thoughtfulness of the Masters hides either a profound indifference or else guilt and complacency.

She goes across the counter, guiding me into a long hallway. Some paintings complete here the very simple decoration. The corridor leads to an elevator.

"I know it's very pretentious, but my parents wanted me to have quick access to the library and the rooms."

The elevator doors open onto a space arranged to contain at least 50 people. The walls are covered with photos, and a minibar stands at the center, with a few pool tables. The first door after this hall leads to a small library. Then, there are three bedrooms. She stops in front of the last one on the line.

"I got you to sleep here from my parents. There are toilets and a shower. We finish going around, and you can come and settle in."

She insists on taking the stairs on the way down, and categorically refuses my help with her crutch. Opposite the kitchen, there is another corridor leading to other bedrooms and hidden rooms, including a movie theater, a steam room, and other wonders. However, nothing can really enchant me, nothing finds favor in my eyes, and I know that the Masters hate that. It gives them the sense that we, Objects, look down on them.

"Are you sure you're okay, Noa, Ka-no-a? Kanoa, sorry. You seem..."

"I am fine, Mistress. Madam. Miss."

"You know that it is actually sexist to call me "Miss"? I never complain about it, but as terminology seems so important to you, that would be nice if you could pay attention to that too. Anyway, I showed you the kitchen, but I didn't even offer you..."

"I do not need anything, thank you. I will be careful and try to not to use the word..."

"Ka... noa, I was just kidding! Okay... I think then that you should go wash your face, change your clothes and go to bed. We'll talk about the rest tomorrow."

"Mistress Freeman, I..."

"I insist. Go and rest in your room."

A little ashamed, I wish her a good night before taking the stairs. We are starting on the wrong foot; I reproach myself.

I remember the path taken earlier but accidentally open the wrong door. The second attempt is more fruitful, and I recognize the wide dresser in the back of the room. I close the door behind me, delicately depositing my bag on the floor, for fear of getting the white carpet dirty. I feel unfit, like a repulsive task, in this resplendent environment. I also take off my shoes and realize that I have forgotten to do it before entering the loft. To my dismay, there is a large, full-length mirror in the shower. Mistress Salvi did not let me use the toilet when I was at her service. I had to go to the park behind the building. I take a long, hot shower, losing all notion of time — a sin, a pleasure that I certainly do not deserve.

I keep the gray bathrobe on me and lie down on the bed. I look up and surprise my reflection watching me. After two, three grimaces, I understand that this is another mirror. It must be a bad dream or a punishment.

My phone vibrates in my bag, and I rush over it. Isaac sent me a message; I am about to open it, but my hand slips on a Twitter notification. I lock the screen and cower. Besides, I decide to wait until tomorrow, to have a clearer mind and more perspective for the catastrophe that he would be announcing to me. I flee from a face to face with the mirror, with my shouting thoughts, my schemes, and my sharp imagination, which condemned us in all scenarios, and fall asleep on the right side, contrary to my habit. I wake up constantly during the night, caught in my nightmares and overwhelmed by reality.