“Yes, sir!” she says. Then she continues, unabashed, “You know, it’ll be a wonderful thing to see the wild frontier. They say it’s summer all the time in California.”

If a sweet dumpling took human form, it would look just like Aunt Tildy, right down to the flour-dusting of her gray hair. When she starts to argue with Joe about who’s going to do the cooking, I dare to hope I won’t be eating runny, oversalted eggs again.

Mr. Joyner gestures to the captain. “Everything’s aboard. Why aren’t we under way? California’s not getting any closer while we tarry.”

“Soon enough, sir,” Chisholm calls out.

He calls the crew over and says to us in a low voice, “We’ll just push off and float a few miles until dark. Make our passengers happy.”

It’ll make me happy too. Once we’re under way, it’ll be harder for Uncle Hiram to find me, either by accident or on purpose. Almost everyone in Chattanooga who might remember me—or Peony—is aboard this boat.

“We won’t try to pass the rapids today, will we?” Red asks.

“Not on your life,” says the captain. “Or mine.” Then he turns around, and the size of his voice turns from pistol shot to cannon fire: “Get ready to push off!”

Red and Joe untie the ropes tethering us to shore. The animals, crowded inside their swaying barn, start lowing and kicking. Coney launches onto the roof and barks at nothing in particular. Mrs. Joyner brings the children to the open bow of the boat and says something about beginning a great journey.

I glance around, feeling useless. “What should I do?” I ask.

“Grab a pole and push off,” says Joe, lifting his pole high with both hands to show me. Red and the captain already have theirs in hand, and the three men space themselves along the side of the boat.

I see where the poles are stored and grab one. It’s heavy and at least twice my height. It thumps and scrapes along the deck as I hop onto the roof, dragging it up behind me. I maneuver it around, whacking Joe in the back of the knees.

“Hey!”

“Sorry!”

He glares at me while I jab the end into the shore and push.

“Your grip is too far back,” Joe warns.

The pole sticks. Our boat slides away, but my pole won’t come free. I yank harder. The pole starts to slide through my hands. I’m leaning over the edge, tipped precariously over the water.

“Joe!” I holler.

Joe darts over and grabs the back of my trousers. “Let go.”

“I’ll lose the pole!”

“Then go with it,” he says.

I let go, and the pole sticks out of the mud a moment before slowly drooping down and sinking into the water.