She lay, skin down in the moist dirt, the canebrake rustling with the whispers of leaves, and loud longing of hounds and the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches. She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom, I shall not, I shall not be moved. She gathered her babies, their tears slick as oil on black faces, their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness. Momma, is Master going to sell you from us tomorrow? Yes. Unless you keep walking more and talking less. Yes. Unless the keeper of our lives releases me …