“I need your help.”

He’s in the stable, brushing down the horses in strong, steady strokes. He’s in a foul mood from riding around Virginia showing people that well-kept slaves don’t want to be free.

“Not today,” he says.

“I got a runaway to hide,” I tell him.

The brush slips out of his hand. He pulls me into the stall beside the horse, eyes flashing. “You don’t go announcing something like that.”

“I want to know where you put the man you helped.”

“The one you wouldn’t help me hide?” he says, picking the brush back up.

“Yes,” I say. “I should have helped back then.”

He taps the brush against his leg.

“And you should help me now,” I tell him.

He runs his hand over his face. “It won’t work this time. I put him in the cotton shed, but it’s picking season now. That new overseer’ll be in there every day.”

He goes back to brushing the horse, but he’s calmer and thoughtful.

“How about down in the carry-through?” he says. “Ain’t nobody going to look there.”

“Until he makes a noise and Master comes down with his shotgun.”

I follow Red into the coach house where the buggy sits waiting to be cleaned. He starts by washing the dirt down with a rag and some water.

I haven’t been back in here since that last night with Henry in the hayloft when we thought I was going free. I climb the ladder and sit where we used to lay. There’s nothing left of him up here. It’s all just hay now.

Below me, Master walks in to talk to Red and I freeze. I don’t even want to know what he’d think to find me up here. He tells Red he wants the buggy ready after breakfast tomorrow to take Bessie to the Pickering plantation.

“Yes, sir,” Red says, scrubbing harder with his rag. Master don’t seem to hear how much anger is wrapped up in it.

When he leaves without seeing me up in the loft, I know where I can hide the runaway.

I wait for dark to settle, glad Bessie’s still up at Ben’s grave. I get Red to look out for me, and, when he says the way is clear, I sneak the runaway, Finny, to the coach house and climb up after him. Red’s got a little water and a little cornbread up there already waiting for him and Finny pounces on it. I clean his wound and smear yarrow paste over it and wrap it up. When I’m nearly done Red climbs up to the loft. The runaway looks to me and I nod that it’s all right.

“This here’s Red,” I say.

Red looks him up and down, taking in his bare feet and torn clothes, and lets his eyes linger on a rope mark around Finny’s neck I hadn’t noticed myself. “Where’re you headed?” Red asks.

Finny shrugs and just says, “North.”

“How you plan on getting there?” Red asks.