[Note: This story discusses slavery in the American South.]

Toby wondered what his name would have been if his mother had been allowed to name him. He often thought about this when they called him to do this, do that.

The fields were so hot and the days were so long.

For many years he had stooped over, picking cotton, harvesting tobacco, cutting grass for the Master’s lavish lawn parties.

His back hurt more tonight than it had in a long time. He couldn’t wait to lie down his old bones on the hay-stuffed mattress. Didn’t even take off his ragged shirt. Only a few hours til starting over.

He closed his eyes, and dreamed that he had grown wings. His ragged clothing now white as snow. He was flying into the arms of his mother. She was calling him by the name she had wanted to call him so long ago. The name didn’t matter now. He was in her arms again.