Chapter Seven
One afternoon Alexa was working in the kitchen, her head in the old oven, cleaning grime that likely hadn’t been touched since she cleaned it months before Warren died. She wore an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts she’d fished from a cabinet of her old clothes, which now constituted the bulk of her meager attire. She’d thought she’d never see the shabby remains of that tattered wardrobe, her slave clothes, as Warren called them. Shifts, shorts, threadbare leggings, scanty tops; she’d championed the sloppy unkempt look far before it became fashionably chic. These clothes had seen her though six years of slavery. Warren liked her so attired. He liked seeing her in rags like a street urchin begging at the corner for nickels or a quarter. There was a second set of clothes, the p
