My bag slips off my shoulders, falling to the floor next to my sneakers. I climb onto the right bunk bed where Isaac used to sleep, to get away from my brother. I turn around on the thin mattress to find a comfortable position, without success. Eyes wide open, I look at the paint peeling off the ceiling, revealing some mold.

I try to close my eyes; however, every time I do, I imagine Mistress Salvi's. I think about that pool of blood, much wider in my memory. So I open them and start over. I fear, for a moment, that I will never be able to sleep again, but it is with a start that I raise my head from the bed, the room completely plunged into darkness. At the same time, the door opens, revealing Imane's face. She flips the switch, and I cover my eyes.

"Sorry to wake you up like that, but dad was worried not hearing from you. He wants you to eat and take this medicine before leaving. He insists as he almost lost, in the negotiations with the Activist, a promised scholarship for Cedric to get you these."

She puts the tablet on the table.

"What time is it?" I ask in a hoarse voice.

"Eight o'clock. You slept all day long. Did you not hear Ho-Jin get up? He came to say goodbye to dad as we were setting up the table for the new slave-prisoners' and cheaters' dinner. He said he was going to put himself at the service of his Mistress earlier for this week. I believe that with the distribution of the enfranchisement scholarship approaching, he wants to appear devout."

I get out of bed to take her in my arms.

"Kanoa..." she says, embarrassed.

"I know, I am sorry," I reply, moving away.

"Do you want to join the cheaters for dinner? We wanted to eat with them, for their first night back in Freetown."

"I will do like Ho-Jin. I will eat something quickly and go meet my Master or Mistress."

"Okay... If we do not see each other in the meantime, have a good week."

"Be... careful, Imane," I whisper, trying to stick to the exchange script that we usually have at this moment of Sunday.

"Do not worry; I already had the opportunity to serve my Weekmaster. He's rather... kind. You should be careful," she says, pointing at my eye, which is still puffy.

She is about to leave the room.

"Kanoa... are you sure that you are okay? I mean, I feel like... I have not talked to you lately, we have not been discussing really, yet I hear low masses all around me, coming from you, Ho-Jin, Mohamed, who for a few weeks, have been angry against each other all the time... but if you had a problem, would you come see me? Like we always do?"

I nod, another knot forming in my throat. The door closes on her smiling face, but I guess she is not fooled this time. To her, I should never lie, dissimulate. Now, I am completely alone.

Not being able to swallow anything, I go to rinse my face again before taking the file, which bears my name and my slave number. The bread was cut in half, but nothing was eaten from it. I ignore the pills that Imane brought, as a punishment, perhaps. I want to stay very conscious of my thoughts; the culpability keeps my sense on alert, giving me a reassuring impression of justice.

The folder's first page contains information about me since my Mistress, a certain Sky Freeman, receives the same document. Freeman... (///I turn the page on a sheet shorter than mine, about my Mistress. There is also a letter that I do not have the strength to read.

Taking care of slaves, being served by them, being a Master or a Mistress, is a civic duty just as well as being a jury member in a criminal case or paying taxes. Nevertheless, the New York City Hall is trying to make the situation as normal, and as human as possible, by making the Masters write silly letters to introduce themselves. Most of those documents are not fascinating, do not say much, almost like a fake profile and embellished biography on Facebook or Instagram. The Masters prove to be much less sympathetic than advertised, and much more demanding. Those who lived in beautiful neighborhoods like this Mistress Sky Freeman, accustomed to being taking care of, do not even bother to meet the slaves in question and delegate the task to their other employees.

I take a picture, with my dying phone, of the pages summarizing the crucial information and stuff the file in my bag. Mechanically, I finish packing my bag, change my clothes to put on those from the day before. I am ready, but before going out, I hesitate. I do not know what to do with myself. I blame my casualness, my indifference, my offhandedness for letting me be too comfortable with the idea of ​​immersing myself in my daily life without knowing what will happen to Mistress Salvi. It exhausts me, truly wears me out to be so distressed, but what, what more could I do? Go to the police? It would condemn us to a much worse punishment than what we have inflicted on her. They would not even try to understand. The judicial system, biased to our detriment, would reduce us to shreds.

It is almost midnight, and I have to condition myself again as an Object. I have never so ardently desired to be reduced to the mere bench of Central Park and have no more conscience than its wood constituting it would allow, since we already share the same constitutional rights. My twenty-four hours of pseudo-freedom are over. I regret them bitterly. For once, I cannot blame the Masters. It was me, in soul and conscience, who had been unjust.

I finally leave the room without closing behind me. Disconnected from the bustle that reigns in the corridors of the orphanage in the last hours of Sunday, I walk quickly, refusing to meet Mohamed, Imane, or worse, the Grinbergs. I do not want to see Karen either, so I go around the back wall of the dispensary in order to avoid Freetown Street. Moreover, there is always a dismal atmosphere on the first blocks at this time of the evening.

I am approaching the intersection between the 3rd Avenue and Marine Avenue when I am hailed by, I suppose, a homeless man.

"Men and men only are the plague of our societies. I hate you and your patriarchy!" he spits.

I recognize his voice. The slaves nicknamed him "Sonia." He came to settle in the neighborhood a few months before. He moves through the streets with the passing of the days; I usually shake my head, uncomfortable with his manner of openly proclaiming sometimes truths, sometimes extremism with which a slave like me should not be associated. It would be dangerous. Today, however, I slow down and take the time to study him, for behind him stands a form that makes my blood curdle. When he notices the drawings and inscriptions on my left arm, his anger is tenfold.

"My Object of last week allowed itself to steal my goods, all my makeup and clothes! It hit me, called me a stupid transsexual Femen... Well, guess what? I hope the Masters-Avengers will slay all of you! My slave of this week will pay me back, I guarantee it, I'll make you pay for the last one and..."

I am not listening, I do not hear anything anymore, but I cannot move forward. I blink; there is only the dirty wall, covered with the FreeRush gangs' graffiti and the symbol of Salvi's band. Actually, not exactly Salvi's. It looks like it, but slightly contrasting, I do not know why, but more feminine — excuse this simple-minded, quite sexist thought. It is not the first time that I see a similar drawing, always assuming some "teasing" from another gang, in a gender-discriminating, misogynistic environment.

I look at him again, the feeling of unease awakens. His piercing eyes remind me of Mistress Salvi's. Or something in his voice, maybe. Their common way of adding insult to injury by using the pronoun "it" after the word "Thing" to qualify us, their shared vision of... I cut short these ramblings. I think that I am going too far, allowing myself too much effrontery. I get entangled in my profuse excuses, almost to the verge of tears, leaving Sonia discountenanced, before going off.

As I get to the subway station, I shake my head violently. An inspector asks me to present him my ticket, and I show him my tattoo. For the sake of consistency with their ideology, the State of New York, no matter how much the MTA tried to make this change, could not bring itself to make Objects pay for tranportation. This situation also left the City Hall with a ready-made excuse when Activists complain on behalf of the slaves: despite their situation, they have, at least, free public transportation.

The compartment of the slaves is crowded, which gives rise to some jostling at the following stops. I get off one station earlier, fearing to suffocate.

The air always seems... heavier in Manhattan; I have trouble breathing in such a magnificent, flashy, and so different atmosphere from Freetown. That is what Mistress Salvi loves about shopping so far from her home and financial means: the conspicuous consumption and my too obvious discomfort.

A small wind blows, I shiver as a group of policemen walking towards me. They go their way without even seeing me. I cut through Central Park, and every time I spot the officers, I experience the same feeling of abash. Finally, I arrive at the address given after getting lost a few streets above.

Mistress Salvi enjoys walking the streets of Manhattan, dreaming of a life that she does not have. I must believe that hope is our only space of understanding.

The alarm sounds to press the slaves to their new Masters as I enter the opulent hall.