After a week, I screw up my courage to approach Captain Chisholm, who stands at the back of the boat, one hand on the rudder, the other shading his eyes.

“Captain?”

“Son?”

“It’s been a week.”

He stares at me a moment as if confused. “Oh. Right. Well, I reckon I can give you another week’s trial.”

A twitch of his lips indicates he might be having a bit of fun at my expense, but I don’t dare put it to the test. I mutter a quick “Thank you, sir” and get right back to work.

One of the oddest things about this boat ride is the utter lack of gold. I’m the only one who carries gold coins. The mirror we loaded on board must be gilded with brass, or maybe even paint, and I hope the Joyners didn’t pay good money for it. I know the captain carries some money, and surely a wealthy man like Mr. Joyner does too, but if so, it’s in small denominations; Seated Liberty dollars and quarters and dimes never give me the smallest niggle. Back home, and even on the road, gold was always poking at my senses. But not now. Now, there’s a hollowness inside me, like I’m missing a part of myself.

I find myself reaching for Mama’s locket more and more. I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, trace the hinged edge and the lacelike filigree on the front, letting the gold sing sweet until I’m filled up again.

Weeks pass. Captain Chisholm does not put me to shore. The flatboat winds through rolling blue mountains and deep valleys like I’ve never seen. Small towns and lone farms hug the riverbank every bend or so. We pass flatboats heading down the river, and rowboats coming up. Even this far west, the river is the busiest highway I’ve ever seen, full of energy and purpose.

We’re halfway through Kentucky one sunny morning, and I’m in the stalls mucking. My belly has been feeling hot and tight for hours; I hope I’m not getting sick. Suddenly, wet warmth blossoms between my legs.

I freeze, pitchfork half raised.

No need to look at my drawers to know I’m in a heap of trouble. Mama told me all about it, and once she made me wash her monthly rags so I’d understand. She said my time would come when I was seventeen or so, that since I wasn’t planning on having babies anytime soon, it would be a regular visitor. With another start, I realize we’ve passed well into February, which means that sometime in the last couple of weeks, I turned sixteen years old.

“It came early, Mama,” I whisper, touching the lump of locket beneath my shirt.

I’m a woman now. A woman with a big problem.