Frustration boils up inside me, because I do understand. Mrs. Lowrey’s birthing time could be upon her any moment. And every child on the way is like a roll of the dice with fate. You never know if you’ll deliver easy or if the pains will kill you. Or if your baby brother won’t even draw breath long enough to earn his name.

But men don’t talk about these things, much less hired help to genteel ladies. I start to walk away, boots scuffing the dirt, thinking about evenings on the porch with Mama, when we watched fireflies and drank sweet tea and talked about all the things that men don’t talk about.

Mrs. Joyner says, “Can you run over to Mrs. Robichaud’s wagon and fetch Andy for me?”

I whirl back around. “Andy’s not here?”

“No.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are alarmed.

“What about Olive?”

“She returned more than an hour ago.”

“Mrs. Robichaud sent them both back. Her own boys are unwell.”

Mrs. Joyner sheds her malaise like it’s a second skin. She jumps to her feet, picks up her skirts, and jogs through the camp yelling her son’s name. When Andy doesn’t immediately appear, I dash over to the Hoffmans’ wagons to find Jefferson.

He and Therese are sitting side by side on a bench. Therese’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, her shoulders not quite touching his. “Andy junior wandered off,” I say breathlessly.

“Wandered off where?” Jefferson says.

“I don’t know. No one has seen him for at least an hour.”

He rises, plopping his hat back on. “I’ll have a look around.”

Therese says, “I will too.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

She hollers for her siblings’ attention and starts organizing them to search.

My belly is in a tangle. Bad men like the brothers are out there. And quicksand along some of the streams. Subtle changes in the flat landscape that you don’t notice until suddenly you can’t see the wagons any more. And even though I’d never say it aloud to Jefferson, Andy could have been kidnapped by Indians. He might already be miles away.

I can cover more territory with Peony. I’ve only taken three steps toward her when a glad cry rings out from the far end of camp, where the sheep are grazing away from the cattle.

A silhouette manifests in the firelit darkness. It’s Hampton the shepherd, Mr. Bledsoe’s slave, carrying a boy on his shoulders.

Someone reaches for Andy, but he flinches away, clinging to poor Hampton’s head.

“Unhand that boy!” someone else shouts.

I push through the growing crowd, Mrs. Joyner on my heels. Andy starts to wail in panic. He’s covered in dirt or worse, and tears streak muddy trails down his cheeks. Hampton tries to lever the boy’s arms away from his face, but without success.