Catcher began to sink down into the sand. The coarse grains found their way into her boots, rubbing against the skin of her ankles. She wrenched her foot free and, with as much grace as a newborn fawn, stumbled over the mounds of sand in her path. The sky, or what she could see of it, was a haze of orange. There were no clouds in sight. A swift breeze picked up some sand in the distance, billowing the black dust against the horizon. In any other circumstance, she may have appreciated the scene and the favorable weather. Catcher wasn’t here to bask in the sun.  

Where are you? 

Silence. Catcher sighed and began the long journey across the black plains. This was going to be a long day for her.  

Desmond sat in class. He blinked. How did he get here? He didn’t remember getting his bike from the garage that morning or the grueling ride through middle-class suburbia to get to school. He rubbed his eyes, brushing away the remnants of sleep from his eyes.  

“Now,” Mr. Livingstone tapped a bit of chalk against the blackboard, leaving dots of white underneath the word ‘Emancipation’, “While the Emancipation Proclamation was passed in 1863, that didn’t necessarily mean that the lives of former slaves magically improved.”  

He scribbled 1863 in his notebook, though he found that his hand was sluggish. He supposed it was still early. What time was it again? American history was his first class of the day, but it felt like he’d been sitting for a while. He glanced up from his notebook, searching around the room for a clock. The walls around him blurred, the striking colors of the posters merging into a haze before him. Desmond’s brows furrowed. He rubbed his eyes, once again finding crusting bits of sleep from the night before.  

“Many African-Americans didn’t have the means to leave plantations in the south,” Mr. Livingstone continued as Desmond kept wiping his eyes, “Therefore, many were forced to stay, working for food and living accommodations.”  

At those words, the pink and white faces of his peers were on Desmond. They stared at him, at his deep, umber-brown skin. Heat rose to his face. He hated this unit. He hated how his white classmates looked at him, eyes filled with pity and sickly pale faces begging for forgiveness on behalf of their ancestors.  

Thanks, He thought, But can you maybe, like, do something about racial inequality in this country instead of staring at me like that?  

“We’re sooorrryyy,” They all chanted in unison, their faces slowly draining of color. Desmond recoiled, watching in horror as his withering, grey classmates rose to their feet.