“I ain’t going to Tennessee,” Sarah says.

The Quaker comes around and shakes Red’s hand. “Aaron Newman,” he says.

Red looks at him like he’s just sprouted two heads.

“This here’s the man from the green house Finny talked about,” says Sarah.

Red’s jaw drops and he stands still with shock before reanimating and pumping Aaron Newman’s hand with enthusiasm. “The man helping slaves?”

“The very same.”

“Will you take me in if I get to you?” he asks, not wasting a second, still pumping the Quaker’s hand.

“It would be my pleasure. But take a lesson from what happened to thy friend. There are still many slave catchers near my home. But, when the weather turns cold and the nights are longer than the days, they will head for their hearths. That will be the time to run.”

Red’s face is a riot of emotion.

Aaron Newman clasps his shoulder. “Take comfort, friend. There are many who wish to see thee free.”

I offer Red my hand. We’ve never been friends, but I wish him well. I wish him free.

“Be careful out there,” he says.

I’m sorry to leave him behind. I’m sorry to leave all of them behind, but I take Sarah’s hand, and we climb on to the buggy.

Aaron Newman has me crouch in the back under a blanket so as not to provoke Johnson, should he be looking out of the window at our departure. I’m cramped and hot under the covering, but I barely notice it. I feel giddy with excitement. Sarah reaches back and touches my shoulder through the blanket.

I feel the buggy move and hear the change in sound of the horse hooves as we pull out of the coach house and on to the grass. And then the crunch of the wheel and the sharp clop of the hooves as we drive from the grass to the driveway. We pick up speed, breaking into a trot, and then slow down again to a walk, and then a slow walk, and then we stop. My heart is in my throat. I picture Johnson blocking our path with a shot gun having somehow figured out he’d been tricked and threatening to revoke the sale.

When the seconds drag on and no one speaks, I peek out, spying through a crack under the blanket.

Beneath the wooden archway entrance to the plantation, below the painted sign that says Jubilee, Bessie hangs at the end of a rope. Matthew Johnson’s favorite happy slave.

Her face is bloated, and her eyes are popped open wider in death than they ever were when she lived. Around her neck, her spun cotton is braided into a noose.

“Should we cut her down?” Aaron Newman asks.

“No,” Sarah says. “Let him find her.”

The Quaker clicks his tongue and flicks the reigns. The horses go jittery and he has to coax them into a slow walk, easing us beside Bessie’s body. Their hooves clop against the stones and the carriage wheels squeak as we pass her. The cicadas screech in the background. In a few more steps we’re off the plantation. Aaron Newman urges his horses into a trot and then a canter. They willingly oblige, all of us eager to get far away as fast as we can. As Jubilee recedes into the distance, I climb over the seat, taking my place beside Sarah. With her gaze trained on the open road before us, and her eyes wet with tears, she reaches for my hand and weaves our fingers together.