Her smile falters, and she indicates a direction with a lift of her chin. “I think he has something you’ll want to see.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I nod acknowledgment and head off toward the outhouse.

Behind it is Jefferson, surrounded by a gaggle of braids and skirts, which is odd because the town girls—even the younger ones—usually avoid him. He stands at least a head above them all; tall enough so the hem of his pants sits high, revealing feet that are bare, even in winter— He must have outgrown his boots again. His face is framed by thick, black hair and a long, straight Cherokee nose he got from his mama. An old bruise yellows the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He sees me, and waves a bit of paper. He extricates himself from the girls and meets me halfway, at the entrance to the small white clapboard that serves as our schoolhouse. The girls eye me warily, but they don’t follow.

“It’s gold, Lee,” he blurts before I can open my mouth to ask. “Discovered in California.”

My stomach turns over hard. “You’re sure?”

He hands me a newspaper cutout. It’s already smudged from too many fingers, and it’s dated December 5, 1848—more than a month ago.

“President Polk announced it to Congress. So it has to be true.”

Thoughts and feelings tumble around too hard and fast for me to put a name to them. I sink down on to the slushy steps, not caring that my second-best skirt will get soaked, and I rub hard at my chin. Gold is everywhere. At least a little bit of it. How much gold would it take for the president to make a special announcement?

“Lee?” he says. “What are you thinking?” His usually serious eyes blaze with fever, a look I know all too well. A look that might be mirrored in my own eyes.

“I’m thinking you’re going to head west, along with this whole town.” That’s why everyone’s so somber. Dahlonega was built on a gold rush of its own, and every child for miles will understand that change is coming, whether they want it to or not.

He plunks down beside me, resting his forearms on skinny knees that practically reach his ears. “They’re saying the land over there is so lush with gold you can pluck it from the ground. Someone like me could . . .”

Silence stretches between us. He hates giving voice to the thing that hurts his heart most; he hardly even talks about it to me. Jefferson is the son of a mean Irish prospector and a sweet Cherokee mama who fled with her brothers ten years ago, when the Indians were sent to Oklahoma Territory. Not a soul in Dahlonega blamed her one bit, even though she left her boy with his good-for-nothing da.