I Want to Make a Deal with You

The room held only Devon and me now, the air thick and heavy with tobacco smoke. The lone, yellowish bulb hung from the center of the ceiling, its slight sway on the wire stretching his shadow into a long, distorted shape that fell across the table littered with cigarette butts and maps. Devon didn't speak immediately. With deliberate slowness, he drew a silver lighter from his uniform pocket. His knuckles stood out as his fingers curled around the metal casing. A sharp flick sounded, and a blue flame leapt to life, briefly illuminating the sharp angle of his eye. He dipped his head to light the cigarette perched on his lips, drawing in a deep breath. A few seconds later, he exhaled slowly. A plume of white smoke escaped his thin lips, coiling like a soft serpent through the air before winding its way toward me, carrying the faint scent of cedar and nicotine. "You must know the consequences of a slave rebellion," he finally said, his voice lower than it had been at the door, roughened