THE SLAVES WALKED SLOWLY BACK to the plantation from the river, their movements lethargic, their heads bowed. The ordeal at the river had snuffed out any hope they had left. The blackening skies rumbled in accompaniment to the shuffling of their feet.

Bringing up the rear of the group of slaves were Mr. Barry, Rufus, and his men. Their laughter seemed to pummel the slaves deeper into despair and constricted my aching heart.

Whitney, the children, and I stood waiting on the veranda for Mr. Barry. The men paused and peered up at us.

“Well, Jack, I say soon you will know all the ins and outs of running this here plantation yourself.” Mr. Barry’s smile at his son was detached and cold.

Jack remained silent, but his body language projected a coldness of his own as he regarded his father. He squared his narrow shoulders and stared long and hard at the men before him. I followed his intense gaze. Rufus removed his hat and mopped his forehead. Beads of sweat trickled from beneath the black bandana tied around his head. Partially visible was the word I had branded into it: rapist. I twisted to look at Yates, who also wore a bandana, trying to hide the disgrace advertised on their foreheads for the world to see.

My mark had made an impact! If not, these men would not have tried to conceal it. In this petty thing, I found a kernel of contentment.

The heavens above us opened and released torrents of rain, as if God were unleashing his fury at the wrongs done this day. It beat violently on the roof of the veranda. The men ran to avoid the storm, Mr. Barry sprinting past us into the house.

We seated ourselves on the porch swing. Kimie wiggled onto Whitney’s lap. Whitney’s chin rested on the top of her head, her finger twirling one of Kimie’s blond curls. Jack sat between us, solemn and obviously troubled, his small hands clasped tightly together in his lap. I gently placed my hand over his.

“We fight evil in our minds, Jack. If we control our own minds, no evil can come in,” I said softly, seeing the conflict tormenting his soul.

Confused, he peered up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean when bad people, like your father, Rufus, and his men, do the things they do, it’s because they chose to do it. You may be his son, but don’t think it means you can’t be better than him. Look at Whitney—she is his daughter, but she is nothing like him. You keep your mind strong and when the little voices in your head tell you it’s hopeless and you may as well fall in line with the ways of the world around you…find your own strength. Stand up and say no. You are the gatekeeper to your mind and your soul belongs to God. Art Barry is a man who helped your mother make you, but he does not make you who you are. You do! Keep faith in the goodness of mankind, all right?”

He smiled and looked thoughtfully out over the storm-drenched plantation. He nodded in understanding. “I think I get it.”

My eyes wandered to Whitney’s. She whispered, “Thank you.”

Giving her a wistful smile, I nodded.