When I return, Jefferson and I lift the heavy water barrel onto the sideboard. If we’re lucky, breakfast is ready, along with something hot to drink. Frost still covers the ground some mornings, and I’m cold down to my bones, so I don’t care whether it’s real coffee, or chicory root, or tea, though I always hope for coffee. Coffee is the one thing Mrs. Joyner gets right.

We only have a few minutes to eat, so I gobble my flapjacks, even though they’re burned on the outside and mushy in the middle. I always thank Mrs. Joyner and tell her they’re delicious. On the third day, she gives me a quick nod in response, which I take as progress.

After breakfast, we load the dining table, yoke the oxen, and hook them up to the wagons, which is a lot easier than working with mules, apparently; Frank Dilley cusses at his mules and his Missouri men alike until he’s red in the face. I’m happy to have the ox team instead, no matter how slow they plod.

Then it’s my turn to let Jefferson off to do his business, which as far as I can tell means swinging by the Hoffmans’ wagon to say good morning to Therese and get a second meal. He’s eating better than anyone else in our company.

While he’s gone, I take the grease bucket from the back axle and climb under the wagon to grease the wheels. I nail down any boards jarred loose by the rough road and make sure the spare tongue and axles are lashed firmly in place. I store the tools in the box up front, latch it tight, and announce that we’re ready to roll out.

Then we wait. I always make sure we’re done early, because you don’t want to be the wagon everybody’s waiting for. Most mornings we end up waiting on Reverend Lowrey. He can’t do the work alone, and he expects the rest of us to help out in exchange for a prayer and a bit of preaching. Everybody takes a turn, even me. Some do it out of the goodness of their hearts. I do it to get us on the road.

Jefferson shows up again about the time the wagons pull out, and we ride side by side. The road is barely more than ruts in the ground, pushing through an endless muddy plain filled with the budding tips of yellow-green grass. The rising sun steams the land dry as we go while meadowlarks trill in greeting. It’s the best part of my day.