The sun bakes us mercilessly as we plod forward—not just with heat but with light that sears my eye sockets. I’m so lost in the blaze of bright-hot determination, so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, that I almost miss it when my gold sense twinges. It’s the barest tickle in my throat, the softest siren call.

The Hoffmans’ hidden gold is at the absolute edge of my range. I close my eyes and concentrate. It’s off to the left, over a rise and out of view.

“I see tracks!” I shout. “Leave the wagon here, feed and water the animals. Some of you come with me.”

There are no tracks; anyone can see that, and I give a split-second thought to how careless I’m being, but it doesn’t matter. We have to find the Hoffmans. I have to do one last thing for the girl who was becoming my friend.

I don’t bother to see if anyone follows my instructions; I break into a jog and crest the rise. The rocky, ochre earth stretches for a mile. Beyond it is a shimmering expanse, like a lake of light. At the edge of the mirage are seven tiny, dark figures.

The silhouettes are as still as death. We’re too late. Like Therese, they’ve—

One of the figures shifts, moves into the shadow of another. Jefferson, Hampton, and Jasper are suddenly beside me, and then Tom and Henry. Together, we pour down the slope toward them.

They’re even farther away than they seem. We are heaving from effort by the time the figures become distinguishable—Mr. Hoffman laid out under a makeshift awning, Doreen curled up near his feet. Luther and Martin sit together with Otto while Carl leans against his mother’s side.

Martin waves as we approach, relief flooding his face, but Mrs. Hoffman is the only one who struggles to her feet. Her face is splotchy, like she’s been crying, but her body has no wet tears to spare.

“Therese found you!” Her eyes search behind us for her daughter.

I try to respond, but the words clog my throat.

Mrs. Hoffman stares at me, and then she stares at Jasper, who shakes his head. She stands stock-still for the space of three heartbeats. Then she wraps her arms around her belly, eyes squeezed tight, and says, “Gott hab sie selig.”

Mr. Hoffman remains unresponsive. Beside him is a giant, bulky knapsack. Its contents make my whole body thrum.

Jasper crouches beside him, pries open his mouth, and forces water from his own canteen between Mr. Hoffman’s lips. He chokes, and his eyes flutter.

“We need to get back to the trail,” I say.

“Ja.” Mrs. Hoffman rouses her children. The oldest boys can walk on their own, but the three youngest children must be carried. Doreen staggers over and climbs into my arms.