There’s a feverish gleam to his eyes, and his wide grin hasn’t left his face. I didn’t even know it was possible to smile and lecture someone at the same time, but here I am.
“Miss Deveraux told me that you’re a bit impulsive and she was worried for your welfare. Told me your services were a gift from her now deceased father, and how valuable she finds your companionship.” As we walk, the preacher keeps my right arm in a bruising grip, but I can’t shake him off without dropping my dinner.
“In any case, believe me when I tell you that I understand how to deal with headstrong Negroes. In my youth, I was an overseer in what was formerly South Carolina. Tobacco fields, sometimes cotton. It was there that I came to understand the divine order that the Lord saw fit to bestow upon we men. I also learned many of your kind fail to understand this order, and I know that you can deal with obstinate Negroes as long as you remember they are, at their heart, children. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ as the Scripture tells us.”
My penny has gone icy under my shirt, and I stop walking as the preacher stops. His eyes haven’t left my face, not once, and I get the feeling I’m being cataloged, like a butterfly in a collection.
“I’m sure you will find that your place is a comfortable one if you make it so, Jane. God can be merciful and kind, as long as you follow His laws. But how you find your life here in Summerland is entirely up to you. Do not disappoint Him and do not disappoint me, and you will prosper. Enjoy your meal.”
Preacher Snyder finally releases my arm as we pull up alongside the tables full of Negro boys and girls. Most of them are about my age, but none of them look familiar, and I wonder where they’re from. I’m glad there ain’t any other girls from Miss Preston’s, as I ain’t in the mood for any kind of heartfelt reunion. Still, I wonder where the girls Miss Preston has been feeding to Mayor Carr have gone off to. Is there more than one town like Summerland?
A dark-skinned girl with tight rows of braids looks up and gives me a guarded smile. “Hi. You want to sit here?” she asks, gesturing to the empty chair next to her.
I sink gratefully into the chair, my hands shaking as I set my tray down. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jane.”
“Likewise. I’m Ida.” Her voice is whispery and low with the deep-throated accent of the Lost States, those places in the Deep South where shamblers outnumber people. Ida keeps casting furtive glances in the vicinity of Bill and his shotgun. “So, I see you met the preacher.”
“I did. Charming fellow.”
“About as charming as the serpent in the garden. Watch yourself around him.”
I nod. Bill is now looking at us a little too intently and I decide to change the subject. “How long have you been here?”
Ida’s expression hardens. “Too long. Most of us came at the same time, shipped up on a train from the Jackson compound.”
“Compound?”
“Yes’m. Ain’t you never heard of the compounds?”
“Once, briefly. It wasn’t exactly an enlightening conversation. Mind telling me more?” Not much is known about life in the Lost States. It’s generally thought of as a place even more desperate than the Western frontier.
Ida talks while I scoop up my food with my fingers, since no one saw fit to give us forks. “Well, at ten you start your initial combat training. We have a test every year. If you fail it, they put you in the fields. But there are a lot of shamblers out there and chances are you’ll get eaten, so that’s no good. At thirteen, you join the patrols. But if you mess up—like if you don’t listen or they think you’re uppity—then they’ll move you to another compound. Or, in our case, they put you on a train.”
“Not in the fields with the others?”
“Only the little ones work in the fields, since they need all the grown folks they can get to keep the dead out. And if they can’t use you, they sell you to someone who can.”
“Slavery is illegal,” I say.
“Not necessarily. They got loopholes in that there Thirteenth Amendment. If you’ve been bitten by a shambler, the amendment says you’re no longer human, even if you haven’t turned yet, which means you don’t have rights as a person anymore. And there’s a reward for capturing bit Negroes, since everyone is convinced we’re immune. I’ve seen folks testify Negroes have been bit and then those Negroes get sold off by the compound. Same if you’re a criminal—and you can guess how that goes, when white folk are the ones who write the laws.” She catches herself, then looks around and lowers her voice. “Lots of different ways to pretty up the same old evils.” Ida looks down at her hands, wringing them something fierce. I can’t tell whether she’s angry or upset. “If I would’ve known they were going to send me here, I would’ve run off a long time ago.”
“Is it worse here?” I ask, not really wanting an answer.
Ida just shrugs, and a girl on the other side of her leans forward. “It ain’t so bad now that they got the whores to take care of the drovers. It was worse before they had something to keep them occupied.”
My stomach turns, unsettling my supper so that I have to swallow hard to keep it down. “Who lives in those houses on the other side of Summerland?” I ask, since she’s being so chatty.
“The good white folks do. They don’t eat with us. Most of the good people in the town are put over there on the southern boundary. It’s safer, and
