The black man stooped among the foliage of the long-abandoned cotton field. Patches of grey dotted his unkempt black hair with unevenness reflecting the inequality of the time. His skin was scaled and ashy; his lips were parched and blistered. If he continued any longer without water, he would be making the biggest decision and probably the gravest mistake of his life. Nonetheless, for the time being, he would let fate decide...
...
The white man lifted himself feebly from his chair. Standing on the porch of the Big House, he looked towards the sky. He saw birds in frightened flights across his field. He did not see the cotton spores at windswept heights. His eyes had long lost their sharpness. He raised his hand to shield the glare of the afternoon sun. By the time his eyes complied enough to offer visual clarity, nothing seemed amiss. He cradled the gun under his armpit and removed the hat from his head...
page 12: 'The Bag'
