The ringing of my phone at around three o'clock pulls me from the second anguished dream of the night. The room is bathed in soft light, and I forget where we are for a moment. Sky must have turned on the bedside lamp. Her figure can be guessed under the blanket, completely covering her body. My phone starts ringing again. I do not take the time to identify the originator of the previous call. Without thinking, I pick up the phone, assuming that it must be an emergency for Ho-Jin.

"You finally answer, coward."

The screen slips out of my hands; I bump into the edge of the little table. I remain motionless for a few seconds, giving time for Sky to roll over in bed. I pick up my phone and rush to the door.

"Kanoa?" Isaac is yelling. "I'm talking to you, Object!"

By bringing the phone to my ear, I do not want to be the same anymore. I promise not to leave him any chance to humiliate me any further, not to back down, not to feel sorry for myself. I promise my ego.

"I hate you, Isaac."

"A lot of good that does to me. Tell your little important self to line up, like everyone else."

There is, for a moment, only the noise of the machines in the hallway.

"Look, I ..."

"The police came to see me, coming back from our meeting."

"They came a few hours ago, for Imane and your father."

I try to swallow back nausea, and it goes down the wrong way. I choke, start to cough violently. When I bring the phone closer to my face, it is Rachel's outrageously calm voice that hails me.

"You and Ho-Jin should be ready to go to the docks, at any moment. You'll be taking on our work, as we might be leaving very soon. Find some excuses for your Masters and Mistresses to leave today. Don't go through Freetown; avoid it as much as possible. I believe they've set up a surveillance system for you."

"How can they already have so much on us?"

"They have nothing. They allow themselves to do whatever they want because we are slaves; not surprisingly, it was to be expected. Even Mohamed isn't that influential. They're only trying to scare you because you're the only exploitable link between Salvi's dirty business in Freetown and his wife. They have nothing at all, but it just takes a little mistake, you just have to crack, and we're all toast, do you understand? No matter what they offer you, don't trust them. This Nguyen is a new officer on the block that some members of Freetown have already dealt with. His dream, his big project, is to purify Freetown. And he has government support for that."

I nod slowly as if she could see me; how ironic to hear her talk about trust.

"We're negotiating with Salvi to take a boat today. Until then, you must not let yourself be impressed. Do it for your family."

Her voice is sweet, a type of sweet which I never knew that she was capable of, as she utters these words. Yet, all of a sudden, more intensely than ever, I envy their cruelty. It includes that nonchalance, that recoil, that detachment, and that calm with which they both mention death. Worse, murder. However, perhaps I am going too far in wanting to portray them as two wild beasts whose outbursts must be excused to constitute myself as a martyr better. I am equally at fault and guilty. I shake my head.

"You have nothing to teach me about what to do for my family. We will do whatever Salvi asks of us."

The callousness behind those sentences escapes from my control. I want to match their calm, but I appear irritated, as I cannot dominate the awkward feeling of anxiety that is draining me. Rachel shouts; on the other end of the phone, there is commotion, tumult, and Isaac's deeper voice is heard again.

"Don't you ever disrespect her like that! Ever again."

It is with dismay that I listen to his voice breaking over a croak. After a few seconds, another sob, then the line is cut. I feel like I am being thrown right against Isaac's conscience. During this floating moment interrupted by the sound of a door opening, I grant the Grinbergs, Ho-Jin, Karen, and myself the infinite compassion that I used to grant my parents. I slide quickly into the bedroom, resuming my place at the foot of the bed, like a good dog near its Master. I have a violent outburst of rejection, retching, and unbearable nausea at the sight of Sky.

I forget for a moment what she is for me and only see this gap, these boxes that BC19 has forged for us. Necessarily, deep down inside, she must somehow derive satisfaction from the fact that she is not in my place. This same instinct feeds her feeling of guilt, pushing her to want to bring closer the banks of the void separating us. Just like it happened to me, I saw her suffering because of the crisis, her leg, and the way the symptoms of BC19 were expressed through her. I felt relieved not to be in her situation. There is nothing else, really nothing, between us. She said it several times already; she made it clear.

I decide to write to my little sister, deceptively excited about her feelings for her friend, Thompson. She would have no more decisions to make, no more choices other than following us. She needs to say goodbye to him and, if she is braver than me, maybe even present her confession. I briefly skip over the last conversation that I had with Ho-Jin. I leave him a voicemail message promising him that I will make sure everything is okay and that he will not have anything to endure, that he must not suffer alone.

Finally, I try to call my dad, but he does not pick up. We have to talk; if I am never to see him too again, I have to tell him how much I love him and that my ingratitude has only originated from the realization that I must no longer lean on him. That I must commit myself, to take responsibility for my decisions, to express my values.

However, my cowardice cannot leave me so quickly. So I try not to fall asleep for fear of having to face Mistress Salvi once again because if it only takes on a sketchy appearance in reality through the form, she haunts me in my nightmares, with all her attributes. Paradoxically enough, I also deprive myself of sleep as a punitive ritual, the one I was introduced to by a Master whom I had around the age of seven. He had the same impressions as Officer Nguyen, now that I come to think of it. Charismatic, neurotic. Rather dangerous. He symbolizes a system so frightening to the slaves that the indomitable waves of the Atlantic seem like a pleasant refuge.

On the other hand, staying awake puts me in tune with my remorse. There is so much to think about, to worry about, and to distress that I cannot categorize anymore. A figure crosses my field of vision, interrupting the array of waves that I draw with my fingertip towards the ceiling. I believe the Form returned to keep me company and corner me. The pillow falls close to my chin, the blanket slips off afterward, but it is her icy nails that electrify me. Sky's breathing becomes louder. Then again, an illusion of silence reigns, broken in reality by the clicking of machines and, in my imagination, by my screaming feelings. Once again, all my resolutions falter at the touch of her skin. I mix my fingers with hers. My phone screen lights up, informing me of Imane's response.

I am at first taken aback by the lightness of her voice, and then I remember that she is not a murderer. Fairly, selfishly, I force a difficult choice on her, and she does not seem to understand what I am trying to imply truly. She laughs at my sudden poetic impulse. I decide not to insist on the phone. I refuse to let my father tell her; I promise to do it personally, as soon as possible. Thereby, I again rob her of the opportunity to bid farewell to the life she has known so far, for a dangerous future.

I remain to gaze at the ceiling, surprised by the first light of the day, which interrupts the thread of my thoughts. If we survive... When we get to our new life, I will write to Sky, to catch up on my future ex-Mistress' news. Not that she would want to check on me, I dare not get ahead of myself to discuss how she views me. But as a free man, one of my first decisions will be to thank her as my equal. I insist on the phrasing of "free man" and not "freedman" because I would not have asked or received permission to access liberation. I will definitely ostracize the words "Master" and "Mistress" from my vocabulary; I will have to adapt my formal speech to blend in. However, I will not forget about the term "slave" and everything that it did to me. I will not be ashamed.

As my fingers grip her wrist, sliding down her warm palm, her fingernails dig into my flesh again. I sit up, but she does not let go. I put my other hand on hers to stop the path of her scratch. I hold back a cry. In frustration, I grit my teeth, almost hurting myself. Not deviating from my habits, I contain this feeling that the threat of a covidic crisis follows closely. I breathe.

I watch my Mistress' face, behind the curtain of her hair, and I can only think about the outbursts which she had. Those whims that hurt me, despite the Activists' quotes coming out of that same mouth. Now that I can clearly see her flaws, everything about her is becoming infuriating; I think that I owe her nothing. I will write to her to tell her that I owe her nothing. To denounce and condemn the Masters who, like her, take pleasure in the secret thought that they will have my gratitude, my eternal fidelity in exchange for help, for humaneness that I should not even be asking for.

As if guessing my thoughts, Sky's hand quickly moves away from mine, and she urges me, without ceremony, to leave the room. The immaterial, invisible slap, which I receive, increases my clumsiness. I go out sheepishly, self-effacing, fleeing the conflict, the silent duel playing out between us. I could have pitted myself against her misplaced anger; I should have gone up against her changeable temper.

Once in the hallway, I realize that I have not taken the time to inquire about her leg because Sky's expressionless face insulted me. She, who is a monster of sincerity, incapable of dissimulating, had to put on such a blank, an empty mask, because of me. She must have had a terrible night herself, alongside this uncomfortable watchdog. She thought about her parents, her operation, the words that I said to her, only to realize she was hurt. However, as she uses this surge of pride in response to this pain, she takes on the habit that I want to get rid of: she is lying to herself more flagrantly.

I allow myself to move forward in my judgment because it is a whole new moral value that I am establishing for myself: I will let my emotions toss me around as they please. I will stop abusing, assaulting, and injuring my feelings. The words will come out in the purest form, without any trace of manipulation, of control. Covidic crises will make me suffer, but I will no longer hide. I will cry, I will yell, I will scream, I will laugh heartily, I will hope, and I will be afraid. I will get angry and will no longer seek the comfort of the Masters. These are my first steps as a future free man. I must let go of these emulations contained by the persona.

I go to the stairs' bathroom, to accompany this new impetus, with an almost dangerous bravado. I am not allowed to use the public restroom, but the dirty slave Kanoa, the Object, the Thing has to make way for what it now tends to: existing as an entire person. A complete individual.

As I bifurcate to find the door, which immediately closes on me, I think that I meet Inspector Nguyen's gaze. I freeze, my hand still on the handle. I am being carried away by my imagination... Yet Inspector Gomez's harsh voice confirms my first instincts. If they come back so soon, it must mean that... I start to circle frantically, banging my hip against the sink. I collapse. It is rare for a slave to escape an altercation with law enforcement unscathed; it can't happen twice. Strictly impossible. There goes the Form of Mistress Salvi, who is joining me at this decisive moment. She, however, remains perfectly silent. Only the sound of my breathing fills the cramped space. Then the handle lowers. I stand up suddenly. As I am not the same anymore, I admit that I am afraid, out loud. I close my eyes, articulate the wish for a quick end, expressing the desire to be seen, at least by my family, as a martyr, given the circumstances. At their thought, my anguish mingles with a strange feeling of tranquillity, causing the emergence of deep memories. Chirps, smiles, and screams. I move forward, the first words of my confession ready to finally be pronounced. Someone pushes me inside.

"You have to go. Now!" Sky's voice spits.

I open my eyes to her teary face.

"You can't go back to the apartment; my mother must have warned the porter and the reception. So, then, wait... wait for me to think... To Celeste's, maybe? Please listen to me! Hold on! Hang in there with me! I... refused to speak to the police for the moment! Kanoa, Kanoa!"

"What..."

"I refused to answer them... well, I lied... or rather, I failed to tell them the truth! You have to go, I'm not very good at this, but I'll try to save you some time by holding back a bit!"

I avoid meeting her gaze after all these horrible things, which I have been thinking about her. My arm falls on my thigh, with such violence that we both jump. Her shaking hand then goes up, threatening to touch my face.

"They'll come get me... if I don't go back."

She slowly slips behind the door. This time, she strokes my cheek before I have to stop her. I cannot afford to explore the murky yet exquisite feeling that I experienced, so I keep it as a precious treasure in the back of my mind. My legs still wobbly, I walk through the hallway, looking guilty. The journey to the entrance hall seems endless to me. On each face, the gaze is curious, inquisitive. I take a deep breath as I reach the small park near the fountain. The ringing of my phone makes me dive forward, and I land right against the chest of a man who grips me with force. My eyes slide quickly over his face. The blue color of his jacket misled me, but I can see, over his shoulder, the outlines of a police car coming closer. The Master does not let go of me, so I struggle.

"What do you think you are, Object?"

Pushed by a violent momentum, my fist falls on his elbow. Immediately, I roll on the ground, next to the fountain. I anticipate the events like a cinematic slow motion: the police, with their backs to us and separated from us by a few meters, will certainly travel this distance to seize me. The Master will make it easier for them, screaming, then going after me. I believe that in all of this, I lose my phone, but it is still in my hand. The name of a dead woman appears on the screen, crying for revenge. I narrow my eyes; I raise my head. The Form of Mistress Salvi is standing in front of me, mimicking the sound of my phone ringing. I reach out, but before I can even touch her, almost brushing against her, a hand comes to my face, shattering any hope of an attempted escape. I collapse at the feet of the Form. Another arm wraps around my neck to lift me. The Master who shouted at me quickly leaves, a smile on his lips. After a few meters, he takes out his phone and starts filming. I still cannot see the faces of those who keep me still, wrists crossed behind my back. Finally, Inspector Nguyen's voice comes to me. He recites to me, in the most ironic tone possible, my rights, concluding that as a slave, I do not enjoy them. The Form dissipates, I collapse again.