“What? She . . . My girl . . .” Mr. Hoffman looks around desperately, as if Therese might suddenly appear. I see our group through his eyes: filthy lumps of weakness and despair, huddled low as if hoping the earth will swallow us and take us away.

Mr. Hoffman wilts, like a drying summer flower. He collapses to the ground and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, and he rocks back and forth, keening in chorus with the Joyner baby.

“I’m telling you, we should go back,” Henry says, shouting to make his voice heard. “We’re falling apart here.”

“No!” Becky yells.

Everyone starts arguing again, except Hampton and me, who watch helplessly, and Jefferson, who ignores everyone.

“We’re going to die here, don’t you get it?” Henry says. “Fine. Go on if you have to, but I’m going back.”

Fear tears through me. We can’t separate. We can’t. I open my mouth to protest, but I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know that I have the right to tell someone how they ought to die, whether going forward or back.

Little Andrew Joyner, who has been huddled at his mother’s side this whole time, rises shakily to his feet. His tiny nose is peeling from the sun, and his cheeks are flushed bright red. He ambles over to Mr. Hoffman, who continues to rock back and forth, back and forth.

“Herr Hoffman,” Andy says, and for some reason, his quiet child’s voice silences everyone. I didn’t realize the boy had picked up any German.

Andy reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out my locket. He lifts the chain over his head.

Mr. Hoffman stills.

Andy holds it out to him. Solemnly, he says, “This locket has given me strength and courage. You should carry it for a while.”

We all stare at him. Wind whips against the canvas of the wagon. A buzzard screeches somewhere high above.

As Mama’s locket dangles between the little boy and the grieving man, her voice fills my head. Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been.

Shakily, I unfold my legs and gain my feet. My limbs thrum—with the gold of my locket and with purpose. “Take it, Mr. Hoffman,” I order.

He looks at me, back at Andy. Slowly, he extends his arm, and the boy pours it into his open palm.

“Now, get on your feet.” I look around. “All of you. On your feet.”

No one moves.

“Now!”

Becky Joyner rises first. Then Major Craven.

“I’m going back,” Henry says. “I’ll take one canteen and—”