“Oof,” I say. She is too heavy, but all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other until we get back to the wagon. I can do it, for Therese’s baby sister.

Tom carries Carl, and Henry picks up Otto. Jasper and Hampton drape Mr. Hoffman’s arms across their shoulders. He tries to shrug them off, head lolling, but he doesn’t have the strength to resist.

“They have supplies,” Jefferson says.

“Grab any food and water and leave the rest behind,” Jasper tells him.

Jefferson slips Mr. Hoffman’s knapsack over his shoulder, staggering under its weight. “No wonder Mr. Hoffman collapsed,” he says, reaching inside. He pulls two tarnished candlesticks from the bag. “Do we need these?”

“They’re just heirlooms,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “Rubbish. Leave them.”

Jefferson drops them onto the hard-packed ground, where they roll a ways before lurching to a stop against a jutting boulder. He hefts the pack over his shoulder again. “Better. Let’s go.”

I hang back while the others head toward the barren slope and the wagon. Beneath that layer of dull brass, the candlesticks are solid gold. A small fortune, disguised for travel. And Mrs. Hoffman doesn’t know.

I put down Doreen and pick up the candlesticks. They sing to me, vibrating through my fingertips.

“You heard her,” Jefferson says, and I jump. “We can leave those behind.”

“Mr. Hoffman has come so far,” I say. “And he just . . .” I swallow hard. “He lost his daughter. I don’t want him to lose these too.”

His stares at me. Then at the candlesticks. His eyes narrow.

Ignoring him, I drop one into each pocket, and their weight makes my suspenders feel like knives at my shoulders. I gather up Doreen again. This time my “oof” is even more heartfelt.

Jefferson walks beside me. “I’m a better tracker than you are,” he says. It’s true. He always tracked; I always shot. We bagged dozens of critters that way. “I didn’t see any tracks leading this way.”

“I must have stomped over them,” I say.

“That’s your story?”

“We found the Hoffmans—that’s proof right there.”

He mutters something angry under his breath.

My heart races, with heat and exhaustion and guilt. Not telling Jefferson is one thing. But lying feels worse, somehow. Once an omission becomes a straight-out lie, you can never take it back.

We stumble onward. My lungs heave, and my legs are brittle and aching, like they’re about to snap. Maybe this time, the Major will be the one holding my shoulders down as Jasper does his work.

Jefferson struggles beside me, carrying a supply bag even heavier than Doreen. His breaths are gasping and dry, and his steps skid and slide, like he doesn’t have quite enough strength to lift his feet.

I think of Therese, and I keep going, one foot after the other.