On the way back to Brownsville, it is no longer raining, but I feel tingling on the right side of my face like invisible, burning drops of water. My eyelids wrinkled, I can no longer see much from my right eye and try with the left one to guess the outline of my Mistress' round silhouette. She walks quickly in front of me, pinching her nose, her purse and umbrella swaying by her side.

Each time one of her packages escapes from me, she turns to gratify me with a scornful smile. Mistress Salvi never puts her hand on me, but I can feel the satisfaction, like every time it occurs, which she got from that Master. He asked her permission to keep beating me.

From the Avenue of the Americas, we take the subway towards Brooklyn, and I meet some of my fellows. Arrived with the third and most recent vague of North Korean slaves — a gift from Kim Jong-un to Trump's government, to honor the nuclear deal sealed after their first meeting —, the very young Chul seems upset and unable to understand what her Master is trying to tell her. She and her brother Min-Ho look exhausted, lifting boxes for his Weekmistress.

It is no better for old Priyanka, who, because of her back pain, has a hard time standing behind her little Mistress' German shepherd. But Priyanka often appears depressed; everything in her physiognomy always gives the impression of a sudden and violent threat of covidic crisis. As if her body gave up on appearances and stigmatization. But it is not bravery, just resignation. Her face contorts, her eyes roll back, her fits tighten, waiting for the unpleasant, too familiar feeling to disperse. I hold my breath and then exhale along with her. It becomes tough to fight a covidic crisis by the end of the week. My focus moves towards the direction from where a coughing fit, followed by injurious remarks and disgusted looks from the Masters' compartment, makes Melisizwe fold in half.

Melisizwe, our utterly affectionate, South African slave, who pretends to be directly related to Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela Freeman, is now being scolded by his Weekmaster for this shameful and public confession of infirmity. He also came to the United States of America through bilateral agreements between two supporter-of-slavery countries. Apart from the celebration of the numerous bilateral treaties that were sealed between the United States of America and other slave-owning nations, it was above all to congratulate the Americans for their recent performance during the slaves Olympic Games. Vladimir Putin's Russia, Xi Jinping's China, Emmanuel Macron's France, among others, had contributed to the arrival of thousand International slaves to America as gifts to the nation.

In just a few hours, it will be Sunday, and for a day, we will not be Objects anymore. We will be able to go about our business in a restricted class of interests before a Mistress or Master is assigned to us for the week to come. Our life as slaves is punctuated by the rotation to which the government subjects us. Being state properties and common goods of the nation, we are the responsibility of all citizens who share the duty of our maintenance. Therefore, each week, a certain number of Masters are asked to welcome us into their home for a few days. Sunday is our resting day, but until "00:01" appears on her watch, Mistress Salvi takes pleasure in watching me being heckled, at the bottom of the subway, in the slaves' compartment. Since what happened to Rosa Parks, no slave dares to sit in the citizens' compartment in any of the segregationist nations of this planet. That was the scope of her punishment, shown as an example.

There are also two other slaves who I do not recognize and who are standing next to me, also carrying heavy bags. They both look at me, insistent and compelling me to get out of my timidity wall. Reflecting on Mohamed's words, my hands forming our community's acronym, I greet them according to our beliefs and culture. The older man answers by tilting his head, and the girl smiles at me, clumsily imitating my gesture. The little finger, the index, and the thumb of her right hand are placed on her left one, whose same fingers are raised, thus forming the letters "E" and "S" for "Elected Slave."

We get off at the following stop. As I carry Mistress Salvi's bags, I cannot walk by her side; always behind or in front of her, to show her respect. The numbness in my eye is fading, and a more vivid pain replaces the tingling. At the corner of Bristol Street, I stop, exhausted, and drop off the groceries. I am sore in my right eye. Letting my hand slide quickly over my face, I confirm that it is a little swollen.

"Faster, Kanoa!" Mistress Salvi barks. "Don't you think you've put on enough of a show for today?" she adds, greeting with a nod, as she passes her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Chen. They have for me, as always, a compassionate smile that lifts my heart. Their slaves of the week, Sol, Nikolaj and Ahmed, follow them, holding their dogs on a leash. They also have to be careful and walk behind them, because these animals have an upper status compared to us.

Mistress Salvi's apartment is located on the fifth floor of an old building at the intersection of Bristol Street and Jackson Avenue. She precedes me in the small three-room apartment at the end of the landing. A glance at the radiator near which I leaned the bag containing my belongings assures me that nothing seems to have been moved or searched.

As soon as it appears in my field of vision, I focus all my attention on the fake Swiss clock in the living room. I forget my obligations, and an exaggerated throat clearing by my Mistress puts me in my place. On my knees, I extend my arms to greet her and her home, as required by the segregationist protocol. Smiling, she allows me to cross the hallway, drop some of her bags in the kitchen, and others in the living room.

The television, whose sound does not work, is broadcasting CNN News. The title of the following document refers to the decision, recalling the Mexican president's electoral promise. A.M.L.O. and his government want to build a wall on the border — a wall that was to be funded by Donald Trump's United States — to limit the illegal arrival of slaves in the country. In the eyes of Mexico, which is not among the segregationist nations, this wave of illiterate, unskilled slaves is a source of trouble. Crime and poverty can never leave them and integrating them into Mexican society is too expensive.

The reporter seems to imply that America has a greater interest in seeing this wall come into being. However, according to the same journalist, Donald Trump, amid his re-election campaign, refuses to see the problem of the slaves' flight. He confines himself to promising the very conservative right, his default electorate, to reduce the quotas for enfranchisement and to increase those for enslavement. His most extreme supporters, wealthy white supremacists, will not have to worry about being part of it — the only flaw in BC19's selection is the bribes. Still, the KKK had something to say about it, as apart from those bribes that can only be afforded by the top 1%, BC19 is merciless.

The debate then shifts to the questions regarding BC19 of a guest representing another non-enslaving country that I have never heard of. After repeatedly misunderstanding the correct terminology of words like "covidic", "BC19" or "COVID-19", the reporters pick him up again, speaking to him as if he were a child or a slave.

"Beat-Covid-19 was the name proposed by the United States to the international program of slavery and how the enslaving nations are subject. Created in 1920, BC19 in its initial form was a lottery where the names of the new slaves were picked from a box, as the law had just been passed in the Senate supporting the transition from a system conforming to racial discrimination to more arbitrary discrimination. Evolving with the times, BC19 describes today the program and intelligence behind the computerized selection of slaves, following the technological revolution of the late 1990s and early 2000s," one of the reporter presents as if he was giving a lecture. The guest pretends to be annoyed b this paternalistic attitude that all enslaving nations pride themselves on.

The citizens do not appreciate seeing us educated, but the history of BC19 is the minimum of knowledge that we are taught. I have heard the story, the purpose of BC19 defended so frequently that I myself could make this presentation to this guest. The essence of the BC19 program can be captured by this central aspect: its randomized system of selection could pick up any citizen and enslave him or her, without distinction of skin color, age, height, weight, or social-economic status. The same goes for the upgraded, freed, or enfranchised slaves. Given the American population composition, as much of a surprise that it might be, among the 10% slaves, almost half of the slaves are white. Imagining a defender of the KKK serving for an African-American Master or Mistress, as it must statistically happen on some occasions, is risible. In the past, slavery was based on the persecution of a specific kind of persons, selected and discriminated against because of either the lack or the presence of, generally, some physical traits.

Modern slavery, however, proposed by the BC19 computer program detached from the specific part of it by introducing the randomness of its selection by toss. That helped the people to adhere less reluctantly to its introduction and keep the rebellious voices tamed, as the practice of slavery is a large part of the American economic system. Not having any true obligations towards 10% of the population is a significant advantage. For its more philosophical and ideological aspect, the thinkers behind this system argued that to give the society a specific class of people to be contemptuous of — scapegoats — would erase the human mind's bias towards discrimination, theorized as fundamentally necessary. And just as needed, we, the slaves, are the sacrifices.

As if she guessed my thoughts, my Mistress changes the channel to bring on a documentary on NBA TV, with Serena Williams and Micheal Phelps, that pays tribute to Brooklyn Nets' Sami Ali-Joze Freeman. Before he was noticed by one of his Weekmaster, almost seven years ago, Sami usually accompanied us to the Sunday School at the orphanage. His physical abilities had managed to win him through an enfranchisement scholarship. At that time, his agent made no secret that he was looking for more than a player; he needed a story that could inspire a Hollywood scenario. That is why his origins as a slave are still a big part of his character, his persona, in all of his interviews.

"You understand that I'll have to fill out a note about the incident that happened earlier? Frankly, I don't understand you. Do you want to stay like this your entire life? Why don't you take an example from this Thing?" Mistress Salvi declares, pointing at the screen.

Each of these notices that she fills out, not without an ounce of satisfaction, certainly takes me away from my potential enfranchisement. In parallel to the usual Green Card Lottery, the Enslaved Green Card Lottery gives a chance to a few slaves to earn full citizenship, an identity and a green card that will allow them to leave the enslaved status. To participate in the lottery, slaves must present a slave file with as few notices from the Masters as possible, as well as a recommendation letter from one of them. In truth, given the recent turn of events, it no longer matters too much. I have already decided to bet everything on the Grinbergs' project, the crucial point of which is based on how well I will be doing in the next few minutes.

Taking a deep breath, I return to the living room, and I hear footsteps behind me.

"Anyway, I hope they don't give me a broken Thing like you for next week. Look at you! I'll have a lot of work on the docks, but how such a frail body can hope to lift anything? I thought that the second embargo Trump had enforced on Freetown was off since the capture of those slaves-Terrorists. The ban on those Muslim countries is still in place, thank God, but the embargo. I mean, eat Object!" Mr. Salvi chuckles, his hands moving in front of my face to accentuate his words.

Mr. Salvi is a form of inaccurate caricature of the typical American citizen, very pleased and satisfied with himself. He is not such a good person, if this makes any sense, and he has a sort of a sulfurous reputation. But like Mistress Salvi, he would never get dirt on his hands by hitting a slave. His official life as a respected and retired gang leader is boring, adjusted to the nearest second, and as repetitive as that of a slave. Nevertheless, Mr. Salvi, the legendary Salvi, in one of these astute impulses that got him into this position, formulated a myth to preserve a dangerous secret. A secret that Isaac has discovered and that I have robbed. A secret that can change everything for me and those I loved.

"Lucia, let this ignorant go! Let's finish with all the ceremonial talking and manners, and go to bed. I've seen him enough for this week."

"I, your Mistress, dismisses you, slave Kanoa..." she begins to recite.

I do not really listen to her, suddenly anxious at the thought of having to leave. My hands stained with a crime that could cost me more than the usual limb taken away from the slave-cheaters and slave-stealers, for punishment. More than fingers I have lost. It is Mr. Salvi that I am stealing from. I even jump when Mistress Salvi performs the famous gesture, freeing me from her yoke. Her hand brushes my forehead, and I get up, thank her hastily, and walk towards the entrance.

"What ungrateful! How selfish!" I hear her exclaim while throwing my bag on my back. I quickly leave the apartment.

I go down the stairs four at a time, allowing myself to catch my breath only once that I am far enough away from the building. Shaking, I drop my bag, kneel, and quickly empty it of its contents. They were my phone, a few books, my slave's notebook with Mistress Salvi's file, and in a double pocket, which I designed, a tiny diary. One of the corners is folded. With amazement, I go through this treasure again. To face the difficult end of months and to satisfy his demanding wife, Mr. Salvi embraced again his career as a criminal, carrying out the execrable job as the head of the Ferrymen's traffic, succeeding his late brother, who died in a shoot-out. In other words, in exchange for certain services, Mr. Salvi helps people like me, slaves, to reach non-enslaving countries. And this is the diary in which he keeps all the accounts of his activities.

Mr. Salvi is not sufficiently imbued with recent technology to entrust his subordinates with a task that requires their absolute loyalty; he prefers to sink into the role of the old and traditional mafia and blames the young delinquents of our department for not being worthy of his heritage. They are too cautious, without any quest for the thrills over that he enjoys fighting with the last mobsters of his generation.

Therefore, I know that the fact that Mr. Salvi created this fable around his notebook, spreading himself the word, had more to do with his belief in his crushing influence than an error of judgment. It is a game for him. Who would be desperate enough even to consider taking anything from him? His successor or the next body that will be pulled from the Hudson River.

My task accomplished, I bite into the chocolate bar, which I stuffed in my bag, two days ago, from Mistress Salvi's secret cupboard. I save half of it for Imane, Ho-Jin, being on some new diet. Mohamed is monitoring his covidic diabetes — the crises have been wearing him down a lot lately. The anxiety, which he is experiencing, because of us, must have something to do with it, too.

The condition of my under-race could justify the choice of amorality; Masters do not expect a bench to have a conscience, and they do not offer it any choice. But Mohamed taught us that we cannot afford, even when we are alone, to cultivate resentment towards those American citizens and their prejudice. More than the risk that one fateful day, a wrong sentence, just a word could annihilate not just me, but our entire family was nothing compared to the threat of becoming a rabid beast, guided by anger and dreams of revenge.

The alarm announcing the beginning of my day of rest echoes, chasing away my doubts. It is midnight, twenty-four hours of pseudo-liberty await me.

I quickly collect myself, thinking of the price to pay for this precious time. I get up, grab my bag, and run towards Freetown. I choose a very long itinerary through the small streets, but it is safer. So early on Sunday, the Masters-Avengers are already on the hunt.