“Yes, I will,” Therese says, looking chagrined for all of a split second before brightening. “I’ll ask my brothers if they want to come.”

She walks beside Andy and Olive as we all catch up to the Hoffmans’ second wagon, which is being driven by Martin and Luther, the two oldest boys at thirteen and twelve, respectively. They’re already taller than me, with broad shoulders and sandy hair like their father’s. A thump from the back of the wagon indicates that Carl and Otto, the youngest boys, might be playing inside.

There’s no sign of Doreen, who’s usually out walking. She’s the youngest at five years, close in age to Olive, and the two have become playmates, even though Mrs. Joyner thinks Doreen is not well-groomed. “Not a proper lady” is how she puts it, though how anyone can be a proper lady at the age of five is beyond me.

As I steer Peony alongside the wagon, Doreen comes into view, and my stomach drops into my toes.

She rides on the tongue behind the oxen, her bonnet hanging down her back. Luther and Martin shout encouragement while she bounces up and down, laughing like she’s on a hobbyhorse. Nothing keeps her there but the grip of her own tiny hands. The wagon hits a rut, and she teeters precariously a moment before straightening.

“Doreen!” Therese cries out. “What are you doing?”

Doreen turns at her sister’s voice. She swings her leg over the tongue to hop down, but her ankle snags, and she starts to list.

“Yaw!” I shout, spurring Peony on.

“Stop the wagon!” Jefferson yells. “Now!”

Peony trusts me and leaps toward the oxen. We pull parallel to Doreen. I stand in my stirrups and reach between the wagon and the oxen for Doreen’s dress. It brushes my fingertips. She falls, and I fall after her. My shoulder bashes against the wagon’s tongue as I finally grasp her skirt. The ground knocks the air out of me, but I wrap my arms around the girl, curl up to protect her, and roll us both to the side. Dirt fills my mouth as I press us flat. The wagon’s axle passes over my head. The sharp iron edge of the wheel snags the flap of my coat and pulls it halfway over my head. The coat catches on my armpit, drags us forward. Gravel grinds into my side.

“Whoa!” yells Jefferson. The wheels slow. Finally, the wagon creaks to a stop.

Doreen and I are both breathless. “Are you all right?” I gasp.

She looks at me with big blue eyes and nods.

Hubbub is all around us. People come running; boots kick up dust at my nose. Jefferson is shouting my name. Therese is shouting for Doreen.

“Can you roll the wagon off my coat?” I ask. My voice feels funny in my head, like it’s coming from far away.