I dash into Peony’s stall, where I hunker down and rip off Daddy’s pants. I check them over and am hugely relieved that they seem untouched. My drawers are ruined, though. I whip them off and use them to wipe myself down, then I put on my one spare. Using my teeth, I rip a strip from the blanket Joe gave me, then I fold it up and shove it between my legs. I re-don the pants, and I bury the stained drawers under a pile of straw. Tonight, when it’s dark, I’ll rinse them in the river, then lay them out to dry where no one can see. They’ll be spare rags now, though not nearly as many as I need.

There’s no doubt the crew has accepted me for a boy; Joe and Red and the captain relieve themselves around me without a thought, though I avert my gaze every single time. When Red teased me about it once, I told him my mama raised me to be modest.

Stained rags are a different business entirely. There’s no way I can explain them away. I’ll have to be very careful and very smart.

At night after dinner, I offer to help Mrs. Joyner clean up. While we’re scraping dishes and rinsing them in the river away from everyone else, I say, “Your pardon, ma’am, but I was wondering. Do you have a spare blanket I could buy?”

Her hands freeze over the cook pot. “You don’t have a blanket?”

“An old one. It’s small and . . . ripped.”

“I’m sure I can manage something.”

“Thank you.”

We finish the dishes in silence. Mrs. Joyner avoids me the rest of the night, refusing even to meet my eye. Maybe she’s taken offense at my request. But after I quietly wash up in the dark, I return to Peony’s stall and find a small quilt hanging over the low wall. It’s faded and patched, and one end is a bit ragged, but it’s a whole heap better than the blanket Joe gave me.

I’m not one for praying much, but I can’t help the bit of gratitude that slips heavenward. Then I get to work ripping strips from Joe’s blanket, which I hide in my saddlebag. Now I have all the rags I need.

The next night, while Joe is fiddling away and Red is strumming his guitar and the captain is singing to the stars, I try to slip Mrs. Joyner a dime. She closes my hand into a fist and pushes it away. She turns her back and takes little Andy onto her knee to bounce in time to the music.

I slink away. Mrs. Joyner did me a kindness, and I don’t understand why she won’t take my dime or even glance my way, but I’m grateful to her just the same.