Pete held one hand steady on the wheel, the other on his mother. He didn’t know where Paul was driving—Paul hadn’t discussed it with anyone. But ever since Louisville died, Paul had become a different man. He didn’t do much discussing.

Pete hit a bump in the highway that lifted him off his seat. Eulah shifted. She rested her hand on Pete’s hand.

The bumps on the highway were many. The old vehicles seemed as though they would rattle apart.

When the tobacco harvest ended, Mister Pettigrew had announced that he would be selling his farm and moving to Georgia. These difficult times were getting worse with each coming year. Money was a myth, Pete sometimes thought. He hardly ever saw any, but the world seemed to run on the stuff. The newspapers only talked about war and about Germany and Hitler. Not the hard times. But the hard times hadn’t gone anywhere, no matter what the papers said. Farms were collapsing. Families were falling apart. Children were going to bed hungry.

They left early in the morning. They drove all day, all night, and all day again.

Reese leaned forward and whispered, “Is Mama okay?”

Pete touched his mother. She was cold to the touch. She slept with two blankets draped over her. She coughed, and every muscle in her neck showed through the skin. The coughing woke her.

“Go back to sleep,” said Pete.

“Pete,” she said with a faint grin. “Pete, you okay?”

“I’m good, Mama.”

“You are a good boy, Pete. A very good boy.” Then she fell back into a deep sleep.

Thirty-Eight
Middle of Nowhere

It was late. Even the crickets had gone to bed. There were no sounds in the cold woods that night. Marigold and Helen stepped out of the car and heard their feet crunch on the gravel beneath them. The barn stood in the distance, tall, weathered, sheltered by pines. You could hardly see the place until you got close enough to touch it.

“Are you sure this is it?” said Marigold.

Helen pulled her coat tighter. “This is it.”

They walked toward the ugly barn and knocked on the door. It made a booming sound. There was no answer. Helen pounded her fist against the door again.

“Do you think he’s here?” said Marigold.

“Oh, he’s here.”

Then it started to rain. First small drops, then fat drops. In only a few moments, the rain was coming down hard, landing on their shoulders and wetting the fabric of their clothes.

A muffled voice came from inside the barn, shouting over the sound of the rain. “State your business.”

Helen removed a folded piece of paper from her pocket and read it aloud: “‘’Tis I, be not afraid, though dark the day, duty laid . . .’” She stopped reading and stared at the door.

There was a long pause. Finally the voice answered, “You have to finish the whole thing.”