He was thrown together with slaves from Africa, given a flat, straight blade to cut the sugarcane. The stalks were hard, like wood, but fibrous and tougher to chop. Clumps of dust shook loose in his face. Blisters sprouted like toadstools on his palms. Nets of iridescent flies settled on his skin as he worked, as he inhaled again and again the yellow-green fumes of the cane.The heat began before dawn and persisted long after sundown. Chen Pan strained his back from all the bending. He tripped on lizards the width of his fist. A slip of his machete opened a wound in his shin that took many weeks to heal. The growing lines of oxcarts sagged under the weight of all the cane. Still, the work didn’t stop.The African slaves steadily slashed their rows of sugarcane. Whoosh-whoosh-whack. Three quick blows was all it took for them to strip the cane and leave an inch of stalk in the ground. Chen Pan had never seen men like this. Twice as wide as him, with thighs thick as oaks. Teeth that could grind his bones.
