UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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I crawl out from under my leaf pile and creep back up the hill, where I pause at the camp’s edge. The brothers could be watching this very spot, waiting for me. But everything I owned in the world was here, and I have to see if anything can be salvaged.
I glance around for Peony, as if the brothers wouldn’t take such a perfect, beautiful mare. Tears prick at my eyes. She saved my life with her cantankerous ways. I don’t know how I’ll carry on without her.
If Mama were here, she’d remind me that things could always be worse, and she’d be right. The night was freezing cold, and I was afraid, so I left all my clothes on, including my coat and Daddy’s boots. I’ve got a full outfit, even if it’s filthy from hiding under rotting leaves. I still have Mama’s locket around my neck and nearly ten dollars in my pocket, so I won’t starve for a while yet.
But I’d give it all up to know Peony got away. I hope she’s halfway home to Dahlonega by now.
The camp is a trampled mess. The fire pit is wrecked, and ochre bits of broken jug lay scattered about. My saddlebags are gone, and along with them my knife, the roll of extra shirts, my hat, all my food, even my guns.
My throat tightens to think of Daddy’s Hawken rifle. I loved that gun.
The cut end of Peony’s lead is still hitched to a tree, so I undo it and coil it up. That’s one piece of rescued gear.
I explore the clearing, toeing at leaves and mud with my boots. My bedroll is intact, though it’s thoroughly stomped. I start to roll it up and discover the most wonderful surprise underneath: the cap-and-ball revolver, sitting there, nice as you please. I hardly have time to celebrate before I realize the back of my throat itches, making itself known even through my jangled nerves.
Gold.
I drop to my knees and crawl through the leaves, brushing cold ash and half-burned sticks aside, following the pull. I find them lodged under a small log—four coins total; two tens and two fives. Thirty dollars. They must have gotten kicked aside in the scuffle.
My heart pounds. Can I make it all the way to California with a total of forty dollars? Maybe with a bit of luck. I’m Lucky Westfall’s daughter. If anyone can do it, it’s me.
After shoving the coins into my pocket, I continue circling through the trees. I let out a little yelp. My saddle lies lodged against a trunk at the bottom of the hill. They sliced the straps and tossed it, and I suddenly regret cutting the straps to Hiram’s saddle. The harm we do others always comes back around, Daddy used to say.
I skid down and retrieve the saddle, hefting it over my shoulder. Strange that the brothers didn’t take it. It’s beautiful, and worth a decent price, with diamond patterns punched into the well-oiled leather. Daddy liked his tools and said a smart man always bought the best and took good care of it. Peony’s saddle was another tool to him, and he spared no expense.
Making the climb back to camp with a heavy saddle over my shoulder nearly proves too much. My feet keep slipping, and Daddy’s enormous boots are rubbing a painful blister onto my right heel. The pain evaporates with a sudden thought: They never would have left the saddle behind if they’d caught Peony.
I open my mouth to holler her name, but close it just as quick. Those brothers could still lurking about. Then again, they left the saddle and pistol and coins right where they dropped them. Which means they were hurt bad and needed to see the doc quick. If I were a gambling kind of girl, and I most certainly am not, I’d wager they’ll return to loot the camp in the light of day, just as soon as they’re tended to.
So I take a deep breath and shout it with my whole lungs until I hear it echo back through the rugged hills: “Peony!”
I don’t expect her to come running down the hill like a dog, but . . . I don’t know what I expect.
After calling her name a few more times, I resume the trudge uphill. With luck, she’ll find her way to a good family. One that will pamper her with brushing and treats. One that understands how sometimes even an ornery horse can be the best horse in the world.
When I top the rise, Peony is right there, ears and tail twitching with irritation that I took so long. I drop the saddle and throw my arms around her neck. Her head tosses, as if she’s not sure what all the fuss is about.
I check her over from head to tail, even pull up her hooves and check the frogs of her feet. One shoe might be a bit loose, but other than that she seems perfectly sound. Still, I linger, finger-combing her mane, rubbing my hands down her neck, planting kisses on her nose.
She snuffles at my coat, looking for a treat. Poor girl is probably starving, so I set about figuring how to saddle her up again and getting us out of this place. I consider using the length of lead I rescued to rig a temporary fix. But without a blanket to pad it, the rub would give her a sore. I’ll have to ride bareback, the saddle in my lap.
I use a log to mount up. Holding the huge saddle makes my weight awkward and sloppy, but Peony doesn’t fight it. It’s her way of saying she’s as happy to see me as I am to see her.
When we find our way back to the road, I pause.
I look toward Dalton with half a mind to ride right over and tell the sheriff about those brothers. No, that’s a broken notion. I can’t afford one more delay. Besides, Emmett said they know everyone for miles. Who would take the word of a stranger over theirs?
Even if someone heard me out, they’d have questions about my family, my home, my destination. I’d have to tell a heap of lies. Then once they figured out I’m a girl, they’d tie me up and drag me back to Dahlonega faster than I could sneeze. Back to my no-good viper of an uncle, because he’s my guardian, and a fine-looking, well-spoken gentleman besides.
I turn Peony north, toward Tunnelsville and Chattanooga. We keep to the side of the road so we can hide in the woods at a moment’s notice.
Tunnelsville cozies up to the mountain, a whole town built just to support the work of digging a hole. The houses are bare and crooked, most not even whitewashed, some barely more than lean-tos. The railroad tracks I’ve been following end abruptly at a wide, dark tunnel. From its base, a steep trail climbs up and over the peak. It’s as thick as ants, with people and horses and mules, all laden with packs.
The town has one saddler. He’s a squinty-eyed man with a wisp-thin beard and calloused hands. I ask him about fixing Peony’s saddle while he’s bent over an awl and a strip of cowhide. He mumbles something about taking a couple days because of his other orders.
“No! I mean, no, thank you. Can you refer me to someone else?”
“Nearest saddler is in Dalton, which is more than a day’s . . .” His words freeze halfway out of his mouth when he finally looks up and notices Daddy’s saddle.
He grabs it out of my hands, squints at it closely, turns it over. Then he squints at me and my admittedly ragged condition.
“I’ll make you an offer, son,” he says. “You trade me this saddle for one that’s already fixed.”
While I hesitate, he retrieves it from a wooden saddle rack and hands it to me.
It’s plainer than my daddy’s saddle, smaller and worn. But all the straps are new, and it seems sturdy enough.
“That’ll carry you all the way to California, no lie,” he says, and I recoil. How did he know? But no, gold fever is in the air, and he’s only talking in a general way.
“Well. Maybe. I . . .”
“Tell you what, you leave your name, and if you decide to come back this way again, I’ll trade you back my saddle for yours, plus the cost of my supplies and labor.”
“That seems fair.” Not that I ever expect to come back this way again, but knowing I could makes it easier to let go. “My name’s Lee . . .”
“Lee?” he says, scratching it into a ledger.
Jefferson’s last name is the first one that comes to mind. “Lee McCauley.”
“All right Mr. McCauley, it’s a deal.”
I don’t have to spend any money, which makes it a bargain for me. Even so, giving it up leaves me hollow and empty. First Daddy’s rifle, and now his saddle.
“Sir,” I say, remembering one more thing. My remaining coins are going to disappear so fast.
“Yes, son?”
“Do you have any saddlebags for sale? Just something small, maybe.”
He gives me another studied look, and I’m suddenly glad to be covered in filth. Hopefully, I look more like a beggar boy than a runaway girl.
He rummages through a pile of leather on his workbench. “Here,” he says, handing me a bag. “I was going to cut this up for scraps, but you might get some use out of it yet.”
I swallow, choked up by his kindness. It’s worn, the leather cracking, but with a good oiling it should last a while. He grabs a hat from a peg on the wall and plops it onto my head. There’s a small tear in the brim, but it’ll do.
“That makes the set complete,” he says. “Good luck to you, wherever you’re headed.”
“Thank you,” I gulp out, and turn and flee.
Peony regards the new saddle with disdain. I let her give it a good sniff, and she stops fussing when I tighten the buckles.
The portage trail over the mountain is steep and rocky and ugly as sin, because the whole mountainside is stripped of lumber and trampled. There are so many people traveling it that no one gives us a second look, which suits me just fine. The plodding, heavy-laden mules keep everyone at an agonizingly slow pace, and it’s hours before we crest the ridge and start down.
Halfway to the bottom, Peony stumbles. Her gait takes on a slight lurch.
I hop off. People stuck behind me grumble, but they go silent when I pull up Peony’s left front foot and reveal that she’s thrown a shoe, the same one that I thought might have loosened during our scuffle with the brothers.
I check her hoof thoroughly. No cracking or wear that I can see. Still, there’s no galloping in our near future, even if I see Hiram himself striding toward me.
My heart is heavy as I lead her down the awful, rocky trail, every step a slow agony that puts Peony at risk. Another crowded settlement clusters at the bottom, where the railroad starts right back up again. I wander around, looking for a farrier or at least a blacksmith, but there is only a small boardinghouse, a tavern, and a handful of shanties.
As much as I’d love a soft bed and a watertight roof at the boardinghouse, I don’t dare show my face in town, or part with any precious coins, so we make camp in a clump of bare trees. I spend an hour searching for dry wood this time; can’t risk the smoke giving me away again. I check Peony’s feet, cleaning the bare one of excess mud. Finally, I’m warm, and my eyes are heavy with sleep. Still, I lie awake a long time.
I picture that creased map spread across Free Jim’s counter. Getting out of Georgia was always going to be the hardest part, I tell myself. But I’m almost there. I imagine the colored county squares marching all the way to the Mississippi. Maybe I can chop wood, do chores for food, like I did the other morning. There’s got to be a way.
Horses clop by, and I hear bursts of conversation, and once, even though it’s dark, the echoing ring of a hammer and nails. Gold seekers and merchants, tunnel workers and families—people like me—are all only yards away, but it feels like miles.
Peony and I cross into Tennessee and reach Chattanooga by late afternoon the next day. It’s such a pretty place, with a wide sparkling river winding through rolling hills that are stubbornly green, even in winter. It puts me in mind of Jefferson, who always appreciates a pretty view. I hope I’m following in his footsteps; that he traveled this exact road, looked down on this exact bend in the river. He was only three days ahead of me. Maybe I’ll run into him here.
No sense getting my hopes up. This is a mighty big country, and Peony throwing a shoe put me behind.
Chattanooga is the first town I’ve seen to rival Dahlonega. It’s big enough that folks don’t look twice as we walk by; they just go about their business along the riverbank. The first blacksmith I find has a farrier’s horseshoe hanging over his door. I lead Peony into the stable area and ask a young man with an apprentice’s apron about getting her shod.
“Pretty girl you’ve got here,” he says, checking her over. “A dollar will get you two new shoes. So her front hooves have even wear.”
Five other horses already crowd his stable, waiting to be shod. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll give you two dollars if you do it right away.” I can’t afford two dollars. Neither can I afford another delay.
“Deal. Come back around suppertime.”
It feels awful to leave her in the care of a stranger, even if for only a few hours. But once she’s shod, we can gallop right out of here and north to Kentucky, just like Free Jim suggested. In the meantime I’ll work up my courage to get some supplies.
I find the feed store first. My heart is aflutter the whole time, even though all I do is buy a small sack of grain. But the transaction goes smoothly enough that by the time I reach the general store, my nerves have calmed. This time, I remember to remove my hat.
Inside, I head toward an iron rack hung with pots and pans. If I buy a small skillet and some flour, I can make flapjacks. I’d planned to supplement my supplies with hunting, before the brothers stole my Hawken. I’m grateful to have the five-shooter, but I’m not well practiced with a revolver, and I’d be lucky to bag even a rabbit or a squirrel. So, flapjacks it is. Flour weighs a lot, but it won’t cost much, and I can make better time if I don’t have to stop for supplies.
Another customer is already at the counter—a tall, handsome young man with magnificent sideburns and a fine coat. He puffs on a cigar while a clerk peruses a list he just handed over.
The clerk frowns. “These are overland supplies, Andrew. Please tell me you didn’t get the fool notion to go gold hunting.”
“It’s just lying on the ground,” the gentleman says around his cigar, “waiting for a man of action to pick it up. But you have to be an early bird, or it’ll be too late. Just like the gold rush in Georgia.”
I inch closer, ears pricked like a cat’s.
“You’re taking everyone? Mrs. Joyner and the little ones too?”
He nods. “I aim to stay on. A prosperous man in California can live like a king.”
“If he’s prosperous enough, he can live like a king wherever he is. The railroad’ll be bringing a lot of opportunities for a smart fellow with connections in these parts.”
“A smart fellow with connections makes his own opportunities wherever he is.”
The clerk laughs and gives up. They dicker over a few items on the list, like shovels and pans and coffee.
“Excuse me! Sirs!” comes a familiar voice. My mouth goes dry.
I catch the barest glimpse of Abel Topper—ragged hat in hand, left suspender strap busted and dangling at his side—before I melt into the shadowy corner.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asks in an annoyed voice.
Topper is between me and the door. If I tried to sneak out now, he’d see me for sure and certain. I keep my back turned and pretend to study a bolt of canvas.
“I’m looking for a horse. Well, a horse thief. I expect—”
“Do you mind?” the fine gentleman interrupts. “We are in the middle of a business transaction.”
“Your pardon. It’s just that time is precious—”
“I assure you, there are no horse thieves in Chattanooga. They stay to the back roads.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’d lay odds your thief fled north into Kentucky. That’s the quickest way to lawless lands, where folks like him would feel right at home. Now, please allow me to conclude my affairs.”
“North into Kentucky, eh?” Topper says.
“You a sheriff?” the clerk asks. “A marshal?”
“Naw. Just trying to get in good with the horse’s fancy owner, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” the gentleman says.
“Do you have a leaflet?” the clerk asks. “I’d be happy to post it at my door.”
My heart races like a thousand galloping hooves.
“Naw. Never got a good look at the fellow.”
If he doesn’t know I’m the one who took Peony, then he struck off on his own. My uncle didn’t send him. But my relief is short-lived; Abel Topper could describe my horse to anyone, easy as pie.
The gentleman loudly clears his throat.
“Fine!” Topper snaps. “I’m leaving.” Boots tromp away as he mutters something about uppity rich folks under his breath.
“Uncouth fellow,” the clerk says.
“Can’t trust a man with only half his teeth,” the gentleman agrees.
They continue to dicker over supplies, but I pay no attention. I have to get out here. I have to retrieve Peony from the blacksmith and flee before Abel Topper sees her. And maybe I shouldn’t take the road north like I’d planned. Not if that’s the way Topper aims to go.
“So who’s your captain?” the clerk says.
“Rodney Chisholm.”
“I heard he’s crewing with Fiddle Joe and Red Jack,” the clerk says.
“I don’t know any gentlemen graced by those sobriquets. But perhaps they have Christian names with which I would be more familiar?”
“Perhaps they do,” the clerk says. “But those are the only names I know. Great musicians both, fiddle and guitar.”
“Thank the good Lord you said guitar—I thought I might have to suffer a banjo.”
“Whatever you say. Is this everything?”
“Yes. Put it on my father’s tab and have your boys carry it down to the landing.”
“When do you need it?”
“At once. The river’s high, good for passage over the shoals.”
Free Jim warned me against taking a flatboat, but it might be my best option. If this Andrew Joyner fellow and his family are heading west, maybe I can follow. Or better yet, join up. It’d be a whole heap safer; those brothers would never have robbed me if I’d been traveling in a group, and it’s the last thing my uncle would expect.
I need to wrangle an introduction; it’s not proper to just go over and announce myself.
No, it wouldn’t be proper if I was a girl. Maybe I should walk right up and offer my hand. I take a few steps in his direction, but remembering his reaction to Abel Topper’s interruption gives me pause. If he considered Topper uncouth, then he certainly doesn’t have time for me, with my bad haircut, mud-smeared shirt, and ill-fitting trousers. I pretend to examine the hats on a nearby stand while I try to figure out what to do.
“Say hi to Captain Chisholm for me,” the clerk says.
“I certainly will,” Mr. Joyner says.
Captain Chisholm. That’s who I need to talk to. I dash from the store, looking right and left to make sure Topper is not around. Captain Chisholm, Captain Chisholm, I repeat silently.
The blacksmith is only a few blocks away. I walk fast, but not too fast, hat brim low, hands shoved into my pockets. I glance around one last time before heading into the stable, and I nearly trip over my own feet because Abel Topper is just down the street, broken suspender swinging at his side. I hold my breath as he mounts the steps to a tavern door and disappears inside.
Now is my chance. If Peony isn’t shod yet, we’re leaving, anyway.
“You’re in luck, lad,” says the blacksmith’s apprentice, coming toward me. “Just finished with your pretty mare.”
My relief is so great I nearly stumble. “So fast!”
He shrugs. “You’re paying for it.”
I fumble for my money and hand him two dollars. “Thank you.”
“Heading west like everyone else?” he says.
I almost deny it, but I get a better idea. “Sure thing. Heading to Kentucky on the Federal Road tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck.”
Peony nickers in greeting, and I drag her from the stables. I ask the first person I bump into: “Which way to the landing?”
“You’re close enough to smell it,” he snaps, and he walks off.
I sniff the air; he’s not wrong. Following the fishy, rotten vegetable scent of slow water, I head toward the riverbank and see it at once. I stare, mouth agape.
A line of flatboats hugs the river’s edge. They seem as rickety as rafts, but they’re eighty to a hundred feet long and covered with low roofs. One is full of cattle; others are stacked with barrels, which men are rolling down the riverbank. In the middle of the river, a small, rocky island serves as anchor for a swing ferry. A thick line of people stretches along the landing as they wait their turns to cross.
“Where can I find Captain Chisholm?” I ask one of the men rolling barrels.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and points me to a flatboat that sits high in the water on account of not having cargo.
I stare at the boat, hesitating. If Mama is watching, she’ll probably toss in her grave to see me walk over to a bunch of strange men and ask a favor. But I’m Lee McCauley now, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
I leave Peony tied to a dock post, then I hitch my suspenders the way I’ve seen Jefferson do a hundred times and swagger across to the boat like I’ve every right. “Captain!” I stand at the dock’s edge and holler down under the roof. “Hey, Captain.”
A short fellow with a sunburned nose and carroty hair pokes his face out. “Who’s asking?” he says.
“I am.”
“Who’re you?”
“Who’re you?”
He grins. “Red Jack.”
“Are you going to California, Red Jack?”
He steps into the cold sunshine. His feet are bare, and his belly hangs over the waist of his trousers. His suspenders strain to keep them up.
“Lord, no, we’re just heading over to the Mississippi.”
“But you’re taking folks west, right?”
“Are you a friend of Mr. Joyner’s?”
“Never met him. Just heard you were taking people west, and I’m looking for a ride in that direction.”
Red Jack studies me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stir loose some thoughts. “We’re taking Mr. Joyner’s family as far as Missouri. They’ll have to walk the rest of the way on their own.”
“How much for passage to Missouri?”
“Rates are up to the captain, who ain’t here right now.” He looks me up and down, taking in my filthy clothes, my second- or thirdhand hat. “But if you ain’t with the Joyners, you ought to know they’ve hired the whole boat for themselves.”
My shoulders slump. “All right,” I say, gazing down the length of the river at all the other flatboats. It’ll mean talking to an awful lot of people, but surely I can find someone willing to take us aboard.
“Ah, don’t go looking all forlorn,” he says.
Another fellow pokes his head out. He’s so tall he can’t stand up straight until he’s out of the cabin. His skin is as wrinkled and brown as tree bark, and his twiglike fingers are long and thin. He sees me and smiles, and it’s such a friendly, craggy grin that I can’t help grinning back.
“Are you the captain?” I ask.
“No, name’s Joe.”
Fiddle Joe. He turns away and starts up a fire in the little cookstove perched on the edge of the boat. His back is still turned when Joe says, “You like chicory coffee?”
A cup of warm anything would taste heavenly at the moment. “Yes, sir.”
“Then come aboard.”
I glance toward Peony to make sure she’ll stay in view, and I step onto the deck, which looked solid enough from shore but is actually in a constant state of sway. As my legs adjust, Joe hands me a tin cup steaming with coffee. It’s hot enough to scald my tongue, but no bitter liquid has ever tasted so sweet.
Red Jack returns carrying three small chairs and a table, which they set up on the open deck. “Well, don’t stand there like a begging dog, sit down for supper,” Red Jack says.
I can’t believe my luck. I pull up a seat, and Joe slaps down three bowls of grits mixed with runny eggs. The other two start eating, but I hesitate to dig in.
“Don’t be shy, boy,” Joe says to me. “Eggs and grits make as fine a supper as they do a breakfast.”
It’s the “boy” that does it. I shovel the mess into my mouth like a starving stray. Joe sure likes his salt, more than Mama ever put on our food, but I don’t mind one bit. “Thank you,” I say around a huge mouthful.
“So, you’re an argonaut, eh?” Red asks. “Heading to California with the rest?”
I swallow and say, “I’ve got a friend—well, practically family—who’s going west, and I said I’d meet up with him in Independence, like we read about in the paper.”
Joe nods knowingly. “Lots of folks meeting up there. But Mr. Joyner is the only one who can decide on passengers.”
I frown. Guess I’ll have to work up the courage to introduce myself to that fine and proper man after all. Might be worth it to spend the money for a shoeshine first. Maybe even a barber to fix my sawed-off hair. If I can work up the courage to go to a barber.
No, doing anything in town puts me and Peony at risk of being discovered.
“But he doesn’t have any say over the crew,” says a voice behind me.
I look over my shoulder. He’s the roughest of the bunch so far, with a square jaw, uneven stubble that make him look like he shaves with a spoon, and red-rimmed eyes from either exhaustion or drink. Joe slaps another bowl of grits down on the table and gives up his chair for the newcomer.
“I don’t know anything about crewing boats,” I say, eyeing him warily. He looks too much like the brothers who robbed me, with his unkempt hair and ratty shirt. “To be completely honest, this is the first time I ever set foot on one.”
The newcomer swallows his coffee. “If you want to hire a flatboat to carry you over to the Mississippi, I can recommend some to you.”
“I just want to get there, whatever way I can. I’ve been walking overland so far.” But I don’t want to keep on that way, and the sullen tone of my voice gives me away.
Red says, “It’s much nicer on the river. And faster. The current does all the work.”
Faster. I desperately need faster.
“Not all the work,” the rough man says. “I have to do a bit of it too, while the two of you are busy plucking strings and scaring off the fish.”
“Singing lullabies, making ’em easier to catch, you mean,” Red says.
“We could use another hand,” the rough one says. “Someone to do the unskilled labor on board.”
“For God’s sake, just don’t tell him you sing,” Red Jack mutters.
“I don’t sing at all, sir,” I hurry to say. I love singing, truth be told, but my singing voice would give me away as a girl faster than you could say Open your hymnals.
“That’s too bad,” the newcomer says. “So, if we give you victuals and transport—”
“For me and my horse?”
“For you and your horse, you do whatever work we need on the way.”
I don’t know what unskilled labor is, and I don’t care. There’s no way my uncle or Abel Topper or those brothers could follow me on a boat. And even though I can’t walk on water like the Lord, as Free Jim suggested, Peony and I can swim just fine. “That’s a wonderful idea, sir. I’ll ask the captain.”
Red and Joe share a chuckle. Joe picks up the empty plate and mug. “This is the captain,” he says to me in a low voice.
My face warms.
“Rodney Chisholm,” the captain says.
“Lee,” I reply. “Lee McCauley.”
“Pleased to meet you and welcome aboard, Mr. McCauley.” He stands up. “This is just a trial, boy. A week from now, if you haven’t proved trustworthy and able, we’ll put you ashore.”
“Understood, sir.”
“This table and chairs get stacked in that nook.”
Seconds pass before I catch on. I jump up. “Yes, sir!”
I try to tuck all three chairs under one arm, but they slip from my grip and clatter to the deck. So I pick up two and run to put them away, then come back for the last.
The crew stands at the bow, smoking their pipes, watching me.
“Please tell me I was never that green,” Joe says.
“Ha,” the captain says. “Don’t let Joe fool you, boy. I signed him on to do unskilled labor too.”
“Thirty-four years old before I ever set foot on a flatboat,” Joe says. “If an old dog like me can learn it, you’ll do fine.”
My face feels hot under their scrutiny as I stack the last chair. Beneath the roof, the boat is divided into stalls. Some are filled with straw; others are fitted with cots or hammocks. It feels like a barn—a barn on water!—which makes it feel a little like home. I guess it is home for some. I bet the crew spends the whole year on this boat.
These fellows don’t know anything about me, and yet they’ve taken me into their home. I know I’ll be working for my keep, but it still feels like an act of angels when I sorely need one. It’s a second kindness in almost as many days. Not everyone is like the brothers or Uncle Hiram. I’d do well to remember.