At sunup the next day, I jerked my curtain open so hard my knuckles cracked on the wall. The first sight to greet me was those big green glasses rocking back and forth on a cord looped around the rearview mirror. Already wearing his M. B. McClean pants and jacket, my dad was in mid-hoist through the driver’s door with a top hat full of goodies.

“You tossed and turned something fierce last night,” he said, setting a piece of lumpy candy the size of a book on the dash. “I thought you might need some protein.”

I wondered even how to begin to eat such a thing, when, with a whack!, he chopped the candy with his hand, sending a few bits sticking to the windshield. I noticed that the sugar-speckled view beyond was not the Sup ’n’ Go. Instead, we were parked across the way from a little log cabin–style store with a long row of rocking chairs along the front porch. It was just us and two camouflage-painted pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot, and all around the cabin were trees covered in kudzu vines that, if you stared long enough, appeared to have grown into giant animal shapes.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“The other side of Mississippi,” Dad said. “My sleep was fitful last night too, so I got us a head start toward our second work stop.”

I was pretty sure that meant we were even farther from Florida.

“Here’s to the breakfast of champions!” he said, handing me a shard of brownish candy. “The lady in the store says they make enough Nutty Brittle each year to stretch all the way to Tennessee.”

Nutty. Brittle. Sounded like a good description of my dad and me.

“Hey, you mind if I ask you something?” Dad asked. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“Sure,” I said. “But only if we can trade questions. And if I go first.”

“Go on,” he said.

“When Mom first became a storm rescuer, why didn’t you become one too?”

Dad slumped a little shorter in his seat. “Because sometimes when someone chooses a job in which that someone will take off on a moment’s notice, the other someone has to stay behind and be ground control. But don’t sell your old dad short, now.” He paused and smiled. “Once, when I was a boy, I caught a frog by its hind leg to save it from being flushed down the toilet.”

“I guess that could maybe count,” I said.

“Until he slicked out of my fingers and was slurped away.”

“Oh.”

I had an inkling to think poorly of Dad for this, until I remembered some of my own failed rescue attempts. Most notably, the frozen butterfly I tried to thaw back to life with a birthday candle when I was eight.

“Seriously, though, Cass,” he said. “Have you even begun to consider what we have here? I mean, have you thought about the things that we can do with Sway?”

“You mean like rescue?”

“Who knows?”

Dad dug some brittle from his back teeth.

“Now, how about that question I was promised?” he said. “Is it my turn?”

I wanted to tell him, Game over. That was two questions already, but that didn’t seem fair.

“Go ahead.”

“What all did your mom really say to you on the phone the other night?”

I couldn’t believe he’d mentioned Mom. It made me glad I’d allowed one more question.

“I don’t know. Just that she loves us and stuff.”

His eyes perked up some, despite his voice remaining flat. “Did she ask to talk to me?”

“That’s an extra question,” I said, glancing down at my knees. Mom had done no such thing, but Dad sure didn’t have to know that right then.

“Okay, I get it,” he said. “Let’s just head on up yonder dirt road a bit and find our next stop.”

“Without a shoe?”

Busted, I thought. Breaking his own rule already.

“I dig your catch-on-itude, my friend,” he said. “But have you a look-see in that direction.”

I looked out the passenger side window and spotted something lying heavy in the dirt on the road that ran beside the cabin. But it sure didn’t strike me as shoe-ish.

My dad stood and slid the Reacher out from the crevice between his seat and the console like it was a sword.

“Feeling lucky?” he asked, reaching so hard to slide open the sunroof, I saw the seam in the armpit of his jacket strain.

Dad stood on tiptoe at the edge of the driver’s seat and put the Reacher up through there like an antenna. He cast it out and reeled it back in, over and over, until he was near knocked silly from what he hooked on the fifth try. Then he freed the weighty object from the hook and held it in front of his face like a rusty smile. It was a horseshoe.

“Like catching shoes in a barrel,” he said, tossing it across The Roast and landing it right in the hole. “Now, let’s go see where that horse was headed.”

Dad cranked up The Roast and we drove up that very dirt road, well into a thick forest of cedar trees, which scratched along the roof of the RV. Within just minutes we found a cleared-out place in the woods where what seemed like a hundred pickup trucks were parked every which way. We stopped just past a bearded man in a gray uniform with gold buttons. He was tapping a sign into the mud.

JUNE 8

BATTLE OF HANOVER’S BLUFF

CIVIL WAR REENACTMENT

ADULTS $5

CHILDREN UNDER TWELVE $2

INFANTS FREE

BATTLE BEGINS PROMPTLY AT 11:00 A.M.

The man stooped to pick up a crumpled fast food bag, and tossed it into a garbage can shaped like an owl.

“I guess even a Confederate general’s got to multi-task,” Dad said with a wink.

“What’s a reenactment?” I said, finding the word difficult to even say.

“It’s when a bunch of folks get together and act out an old battle,” said Dad. “Kind of like a play of sorts.”

“But didn’t the Civil War split up America and make people fight against their own families? Why would you want to reenact something terrible as that?”

“Well, I’ve personally never tried it,” he said. “But I guess what it means to them is keeping the stories of their ancestors alive, be they tragic or heroic, by reliving them. It’s their way of making those stories a part of themselves.”

Dad pried bits of brittle off the windshield. “But what it means to us is an opportunity to dazzle some folks with our inventory.”

“You think these people are going to want old soaps?”

“Cass, this here is a captive audience of people who have a deep appreciation of all things authentic. Our gift ought to be more than welcome here.” Something in his voice sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as me.

A few more brass-buttoned soldiers passed in front of The Roast.

“Plus, it looks likes these folks are no strangers to grown-ups playing dress-up.” Dad sucked in hard to button his jacket. “And this makes me look a tad historical, no?”

The taddest of tads, I thought, giving him a nod.

Dad gathered up the rest of his green-and-yellow ensemble while I slipped on my tank top, a T-shirt, and some cutoffs.

“I’m thinking we scale back a little on the setup today, out of respect to our unique audience,” he said. “What do you think? Perhaps we should leave the banner behind?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, finding myself wondering what on earth he planned to rhyme with Civil War.

“Let’s get a move on,” he said. “I bet they’re already setting up in there.”

We finished getting dressed and then gathered the wagon, suitcase, tambourine, and fold-up table. It made for a very slow walk across the woods having to yank the loaded wagon free from the forest thicket, and Dad had to help me again and again. When we finally reached the huge clearing that was to be the battle site, we stopped next to some ladies laying out sandwiches and drinks on a huge quilt.

“Morning, ladies,” Dad said with a bow. “Mind if my partner and I take a few of those waters off your hands?”

“Be our guests,” said one of them.

The women all wore poof-sleeve dresses with tiny waists and long hoopy skirts, one color for every lady. Beyond them, a crowd of men in faded blue and worn gray milled around the big clearing, many on foot, some on horses. I realized I’d seen these people in my prayer before, except for this time, they were cleaning guns, sharpening swords, and shining boots. They looked like a page torn from my fourth-grade history book.

“You mind being the wagon-filler?” Dad said.

That I didn’t mind. I was just glad not to be assigned tambourine duty again.

Dad unfolded our table and popped open the MBM suitcase, right between a bigger table of flyers about future Civil War reenactments and a display of dirty, dented relics from various battlegrounds. As I emptied eight bottled waters into the wagon, a few of the soldiers broke away from their duties and made their way toward us. Dad was already sweating hard, maybe from the heat, or maybe from the men with guns and knives headed in our direction.

“Gentlemen in blue and gentlefolk in gray,” he greeted them. “The name’s M. B. McClean. This here’s my daughter-turned-partner, Cass.”

The men tipped their hats at me.

“Do forgive the intrusion, if you would, but Cass and I have a suitcase full of something that folks such as yourselves might find more than a little remarkable.”

People on either side of us stopped setting up their displays to have a listen.

“You see, we have in this very case a genuine and rare collection of soap slivers used by and passed down by heroes of old!” Dad launched into a medium-quietish version of his speech.

The man with the most medals on his uniform scratched his head.

“For just a quick wash in our wagon with one of these soaps, a part of their greatness can magically become your own,” Dad added, tugging at his collar.

I saw him shove the tambourine under the table with his foot. That’s when I wondered if we would ever make it out of those woods, or if we’d end up in some haul-theweirdos-off-to-jail reenactment.

“And did we mention it’s all free?” Dad’s voice trailed off, and it looked like he might very well melt into a pool of nerves and sweat, when a man with a waxy mustache and a shiny Confederate States belt buckle spoke up from among the silent troops.

“You know, I heard tell of something like this before,” he said. “Some sort of Indian legend about wearing the headpiece of a warrior and feeling his strength.…But that might very well be a bunch of hoo-ha.”

“Well, we’ve got a hundred shades of military heroism represented in this suitcase, sir,” Dad said. “A whole mess of valor, strength, and nobility all literally at your fingertips. It can’t hurt to try one, right?”

The man adjusted his holster and put both hands on his hips. “What did you say your name was, fella?” he asked.

“M. B. McClean, sir. And Cass.”

“Honorary Captain M. B. McClean and Little Miss Cass,” the man said, “I believe I speak for my men as well as for the enemy in saying we are a mite intrigued by what you have to offer.”

A few of the troops nodded in agreement. Dad responded with some sort of salute, looking like a great glob of worry had slid right off him.

Then the man took out a brassy pocket watch and stared at it thoughtfully. “The battle begins in fifty-three minutes.” His voice rose above us all. “You’ve got that long to do your thing, Mr. McClean.”

“Well, let’s waste no time, then,” said Dad. “Gather ’round!”

A few representatives from the group stepped forward to take a closer look.

“First off, let me tell you about a couple little gems we have in here,” he said, shuffling through the case and lifting high two tiny white soap slivers. “These here represent none other than Ulysses S. Grant and Stonewall Jackson.

“As you folks well know, Grant was a celebrated Union war hero and eighteenth president of our own United States. But did you know this?” he added. “Did you know that in the heat of battle, when his officers were ready to give up, Grant never lost his composure? In fact, his nerves of steel were a marvel to all around him. They say he could write orders while shells burst all around him and never even flinch.”

The men in navy blue had begun removing their gloves and tucking them into their belts. Then Dad said something that moved the gray men just as much.

“And speaking of never flinching,” he said. “Let’s not forget General Stonewall Jackson, bold Confederate commander, who earned his nickname at the Battle of Bull Run for sitting calmly on his horse, staying firm and undaunted like a stone wall throughout the fight.”

In an instant, the people crowded around both of us so tight, they bumped and sloshed our water. I had to pull the wagon to safety as Dad began a roll call of slivers thumbtacked to the inside of the suitcase lid. And thus began mine and Dad’s work at the Battle of Hanover’s Bluff. Of course, Ulysses and Stonewall were the first two soaps to be used up. After that went a wash with Napoleon Bonaparte, the French emperor who was hailed as a military genius. Then someone scrubbed with a Samuel Middleton, the only black officer in the American Revolutionary War. There was even a wash with John Wayne, famous movie star, horse rider, and all-around tough guy. As I led man after man to the water wagon for his turn, I noticed a boy slowly make his way to the front of the line. He was a droopy-shoulder kid who looked to be about my age. He had a pair of drumsticks in the pocket of his cargo shorts and a spotted puppy on a leash.

“Well hello, young man,” said Dad. “What can we do for you today?”

“Nothing,” said the boy, looking over the brown suitcase with a sulky frown on his face. “I don’t want any old soap. I just wanted to see what all the commotion was about.”

“Do you have a job in this here battle?” said Dad.

“No, I mainly just stand over there and wait for my dad to die and come back to life.”

“Do you really play the drums?” I asked him.

“Whenever I can,” he said.

“Well, young man, want it or not, I do have something that would be perfect for you,” said Dad, rummaging through the collection and finding a green soap marked TH.

“Tommy Hubler was rumored to be the youngest member of the Union Army,” he explained. “A fine, brave drummer boy he was, alerting troops of their movement orders, sounding retreat in the midst of heavy enemy fire, and standing by ready to lay down the drum and help an injured man if necessary.”

“Um, no thanks,” said the boy. The puppy whimpered and squirmed.

“You sure? My assistant can hold your pup while you wash,” Dad said.

“You mean this stuff really works?” the boy whispered to me. Both he and Dad waited for my response. In place of an answer, I just did a little shrug-nod.

“Hold up,” Dad said, finding yet another soap, this one with just an S on it. “And speaking of that there pup, who could forget Stubby, possibly the bravest-ever soldier dog, who accompanied soldiers in seventeen battles during World War I, providing comfort, companionship, and the occasional biting of an enemy behind.”

“If you say so,” said the boy, handing me the puppy and squatting to wash his hands in the wagon. I knelt next to him to hold the puppy’s front feet in the water while the boy put some Stubby suds on there. The pup wiggled so hard it sent bubbles splashing all over his little licky face.

“This feels kind of goofy,” said the boy.

“I know,” I mumbled.

“Which one’s your dad?” I tried to change the subject. “I’ll watch for him today.”

“The guy who used the Napoleon soap,” he said, taking the dog into his arms and backing away from the wagon with a shy, “Thanks.”

After the boy was gone, Dad turned his attention back to the crowd.

“We mustn’t neglect the ladies here today,” he said. “For you all, we have a very special soap. A Mrs. Clara Barton, nicknamed ‘Angel of the Battlefield,’ who tirelessly and tenderly nursed the Civil War wounded back to health.”

Three of the big-skirted women raised their hands in response, and the rest of the waiting gentlemen let the ladies cut in front of them.

“Not to worry,” said Dad. “It’s a sizable sliver Clara left behind. More than enough washings to go around.”

A woman with a smear of mustard on her cheek was next up to the table.

“I don’t do anything on the battlefield,” she said. “But I’m in charge of feeding all these folks, so maybe I could use a good hand-washing for more than one reason today.”

Dad smiled and said, “I know just what you need.”

He rummaged for a minute through the pile of loose slivers in the bottom of the case for an A A soap.

“Abigail Adams,” he said. “The very first woman to be called First Lady of the United States. In the late 1700’s, she did such a splendid job of hosting visitors at the White House, she was nicknamed Mrs. President.”

As Dad handed out soaps one right after another, I found being so close to the collection totally mesmerizing, especially with Clara Barton, a famous rescuer’s soap, in the mix. I remembered reading about her in school, how she was the founder of the American Red Cross, one of the groups that had sent Mom a letter of thanks for her work. I reached over to trace my finger in the letters of Clara Barton’s sliver before it was handed off to the big-skirts, but I was stopped by Dad making an obnoxious game-show-buzzer noise.

“Remember…not till you’re ready,” he said firmly, before getting back to the business of assigning soaps and directing people one at a time to the washing line.

The layers upon layers of slivers looked like little pastel pieces of bone, and their faint scents all mixed into one, making me wonder how such ancient soaps could still have smell left in them at all. After a while, I noticed a small tear in the silky lining in the lower left corner of the suitcase lid. Peeking from behind the tear was a paper corner, just a hint of something tucked behind the fabric.

“What’s that paper sticking out there?” I asked Dad, between customers.

“Oh, none of your concern,” he replied in a singsongy way. I expected him to tuck the paper corner back under the fabric, but he didn’t.

Instead, Dad got up to turn the wagon in a way that would allow more than one person to wash at once, and I turned my attention to that half-hidden piece of paper, walking my fingers up the edge of the suitcase and behind the rip in the lining. I slid the neatly folded paper out of there, careful not to make the tear any bigger. Then I shoved it up under my arm, excused myself to explore a bit, and wandered just beyond the ladies to a monument of stacked cannonballs. As the people awaiting their turns at the wagon stood still as chess pieces, I balanced on the topmost one of the slick stack of cold cannonballs and gently unfolded the frail document. It was soiled and faded and burned on one edge, and the words were written in nice cursive, like the roster of soldiers’ names at the base of the monument. There was the smallest of melted soap slivers stuck to the bottom of the certificate with a piece of purple ribbon smashed under it, like it had been sealed by a king. The document read:

CERTIFICATE OF AUTHENTICITY

LET THE HOLDER OF THIS COLLECTION OF SOAPS REST

IN THE ASSURANCE THAT THE CONTENTS BEQUEATHED

HEREIN ARE NO LESS THAN ONE HUNDRED PERCENT AUTHENTIC,

THEIR POWER AND POTENTIAL

IMMEASURABLE.

The words shot such a fire through me, I near slid off my cannonball. Authentic. Assurance. Potential. Immeasurable power. It certainly was fancy enough language to be something handed down for generations. And the paper looked old and worn as the Declaration of Independence.

Across the field, as I watched uniformed men and frilly women, recognizers and appreciators of all things authentic, put their trust in our collection of soaps, I found myself squeezing that certificate so hard I put peanut brittle fingerprints on it. Then suddenly, it felt like someone had struck a match in a shed full of fireworks, each new thought its own whistling explosion of color. Who had written this certificate? And why had my family been chosen to receive these soaps? And then I wondered which soap I would choose for myself, and what it would feel like to wash with it. Would it send ghostly coldness all through my veins? Or maybe give a tingle up my arms, like an itty-bitty electrical zing. A zingle, perhaps. After all, even the Tommy Hubler boy had said it felt weird to wash with one. Maybe that’s what he meant.

It was at that moment that I remembered the baby bird I’d seen nested in the letter Y on that sign back home. And then I imagined my own rubbery baby bird self moving out of the Y and into the O.

O me.

O my.

O wow.

Could Sway be real?