The article made it seem like we were called to some great national purpose, a destiny so manifest that it was inevitable we should pack up and cross the continent. The discussion of travel routes, by sea and land, made us feel a part of some greater strategy. The instructions, the lists of supplies—they all felt like foolproof plans that would protect us and deliver us safely.

But the strategy does not matter, and our plans will not protect us.

In the end, it’s nothing complicated, or grand, or beautiful. It’s no more than the simple act of aiming in a direction and putting one aching foot in front of another across a baking desert until we either reach our destination or falter and quit.

Or die. We’ve lost too many people already. I look around at the families nearby, all trudging along with the same heat-glazed determination—the Hoffmans, the Joyners, the college men. My heart would break if we lost even one more soul.

“Another ox down!” comes the cry ahead of me.

This time it’s the bachelors’ wagon. Jefferson, Therese, and I run to help. Jeff reaches the exhausted animal first and unyokes it. The ox staggers free, barely able to stay on its feet.

Jefferson pulls down the bandanna that protects his mouth and nose from the relentless dust. “What do we do with it?” he asks Jasper. “Do you want me to put it on a lead?”

“No,” he says. “Let it follow the wagons if it can. If it can’t, then good luck to it.”

Jefferson and Jasper stare at each other a moment. Jefferson’s face has a hardness to it, like that of a man twice his age. At last he says, “I’m going to butcher it.”

Jasper nods once and turns away.

“Jeff, no!” Therese says, putting a hand on his arm. It’s the closest they’ve been since Mr. Hoffman forbade them to speak to each other. “I can’t eat one of the oxen. I just can’t.”

The look he turns on her is fierce. “You can and you will, if it comes to that. But it’s not for us. Not yet.”

“Then . . .”

“Nugget and Coney,” I explain. “We have no water to spare. There’s no fresh game. If we keep sneaking pieces of flapjack to them, letting them drink from our own canteens, Dilley will put them down.”

“Oh,” she says, her face blanching with the realization that it’s not the meat Jefferson wants to save so much as the blood. She stares at the poor creature. Its ribs are stark and sharp, its sides heaving. “Just make it quick.”

“Of course.” He pulls his knife from his belt.

We resume our plodding journey. Jefferson stands beside the ox, waiting for us to get out of sight before doing the deed.