The wheels hit a dip. Reverend Lowrey is jerked off his feet. He slams into Jasper, and both of them tumble to their knees. My shoulders wrench, like they’re about to pop out of their sockets, and the rope around my waist squeezes the breath from my body. Jefferson and Martin squat low for leverage, but the weight of the wagon drags them to their bottoms. All of us slide slowly, inescapably, dragged by the wagon’s weight.

“Get out of the way,” I yell at Mr. Joyner.

“Almost got it,” he yells back.

Another rut, another lurch. The rope burns through my palms. I roll on the ground, twisting away before it can strangle me. Gravel fills my mouth and scrapes my cheek.

I’m flat on my stomach as I watch, horrified, while the wagon bounces down to the bottom, rope trailing behind. It crashes into a rock, and topples over. The headboard flies out and splinters.

Shakily, I get to my feet, looking for Mr. Joyner. I see the dresser first, a shamble of busted wood and dirtied shirts. Beside it is a man’s boot, empty and alone.

“Daddy?” I whisper.

I slide down the hillside, Jasper right behind me. I’m heedless of the gravel imbedding itself into my palms or the tears blurring my vision. I know it’s not Daddy, of course it’s not, but I’m going to be too late again. I already know what I’ll find.

I round the dresser’s remains. Mr. Joyner is a broken and bloody mess, lying mashed into the gravel where the wheels rolled over him. He doesn’t even look like a person anymore, and I have to turn away.

“Damn fool,” Jasper says at my shoulder just as Therese rushes up.

“Mein Gott,” she says breathlessly. She must have started sprinting the moment she saw him go down.

My stomach is roiling, but I find my voice. “We have to take him down to Mrs. Joyner.”

Jasper wipes sweat from his brow. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I still work for him,” I say.

“I will help you,” Therese says in a voice nearer to a squeak.

Jasper gets a grip beneath Mr. Joyner’s shoulders. Therese and I each pick up a leg. Slowly, we half carry, half drag what’s left of him to the bottom of the hill, preserving as much dignity as we can muster. In my care to avoid looking at the area of his chest and abdomen, I notice the trail of blood that scars the slope behind us.

We reach the bottom, and I look to Mrs. Joyner, expecting to find her inconsolable.

Andy and Olive have disappeared, already ushered away by some kind soul. Mrs. Joyner just stands there, her hands neatly clasped above her enormous belly, her face as stony as the mountain her husband died on.