Annabelle Smith is the height of fashion, even in mourning black, with a rabbit-fur cape and a poke bonnet with blue silk flowers and long, trailing ribbons. Her young slave, Jeannie, stands a pace behind her, shivering in a thin muslin dress. Reverend Wilson has already taken up his post behind the twin wooden crosses, his huge Bible in one arm and his huge wife under the other.

I’m surprised to see Jefferson’s da. He wears his buckskin coat over stained trousers, and he stares dolefully as I approach, his red nose brighter than ever. Does Mr. McCauley realize Jefferson has run away?

Beside him is Free Jim Boisclair, the richest Negro in Lumpkin County and a great friend to my daddy. He speaks in hushed tones to a few others I recognize from our infrequent visits to the Methodist church. He points to something in his hand. A leaflet, with writing I can’t make out. Several others are clutching leaflets too. There’s a buzz in the air, like when everyone is worked up to hear a new preacher. I can’t shake the feeling that the leaflet is the main attraction and the funeral a mere afterthought.

Upon seeing me, the reverend clears his throat. Conversations die around me. My face warms under the scrutiny of silence, and I’m almost relieved when he launches into his eulogy.

To my dismay, it turns out to be a sermon. He speaks of the toils of this life and how sometimes our troubles make us want to escape to far-off places instead of standing strong in the Lord’s grace. He says the love of gold is the root of all evil and we should be storing up treasures in heaven instead.

Tears prick at my eyes. No one would blame me for shedding a few, but I hold them back anyway, because I don’t want to let rage tears flow when my parents deserve grief. It’s not right, the reverend using their deaths as an excuse to give us all a talking-to.

I’m in a bit of a haze and grateful for it when Annabelle Smith—who wrongly thinks she has the voice of an angel and always sings loudest in church—barrels through all six stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” Everyone comes to shake my hand and tell me how sorry they are and that God is looking out for me as one of his sparrows and do I need anything?

Mr. McCauley hangs back. Gone is his angry scowl. He wrings his hat in his hands and glances around as if searching for something. Finally, he approaches.

“You seen Jefferson?” he asks.

I echo his own words back at him. “Dunno where that boy run off to.”

My mockery is lost on him. “Sorrel mare is gone. And my rifle. I found this by his bed.” He shoves one of the leaflets in my face. “Dog’s gone too.”