My relief is short-lived. Mrs. Joyner, who sits on the wagon bench, jumps in with, “Now, darling, don’t impose yourself on the lad. I’m certain he has plans of his own.”

I angrily heave the trunk over the side, and it lands with a too-loud clunk.

“There’s only one direction to go,” Mr. Joyner says, “and the lad might as well travel with us. It’s too late to send him scouting ahead, and there’s no point in making him wait behind when he’s traveling light—he’ll simply overtake us. He can help load and carry, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

“That’s fine by me,” I’m quick to add. It’s not fine. It’s highway robbery, is what it is. But it’s also better than being alone.

Mrs. Joyner folds her hands into her lap and frowns.

We wait while Mr. Joyner hires two men who are relatively clean and able to provide references. Even so, we’re another hour getting all the furniture loaded. Mr. Joyner climbs onto the bench, snaps the reins over the oxen, and the wagon lurches forward. Peony and I follow, Coney running circles at her heels.

We glimpse the Mississippi River through breaks in the trees as we ride along. I keep Peony behind the wagon and out of Mrs. Joyner’s sights, which ensures that I inhale buckets of dirt and mud flecks. Andy and Olive peek at me through the bonnet, their cherub faces jerking up and down with each rut in the road.

We travel less than five miles before night begins to fall. The wagon slows and pulls over to the side. I steer Peony around and discover that we’ve reached a small farmhouse.

A small slave girl, no more than ten years old, answers the door and runs to fetch her master. He’s a lean older man, with skin like weathered hickory.

“Hello, good sir,” Mr. Joyner says. “My family and I—”

“What state are you from?” the old man asks.

“Tennessee,” says Mr. Joyner.

He grunts. “As long as you aren’t from Illinois or Ohio or any of them places.”

I gape at him, realizing he means free states. Maybe things are different near the frontier, but no one in Georgia ever refused to help my father because of his Yankee ways.

The old man steps inside to have a brief conversation with his wife, and they reach an agreement. “We can provide accommodations and provisions. Supper and breakfast. You’ll have to share the beds.”