If you want to get rid of a ghost, make the sign of the cross, spit, and dare the ghost to come out or leave for good.

I hurt somethin bad, but I walked most of the hot, thick night, switchin my sling and sack from side to side. I had plenty of time to think about things, like how mad Pa and my brothers would be when they got to home and didn’t have any food waitin for them. First they’d be yellin for me, but once they lifted the trapdoor and found both me and their stores missin, they’d be spittin mad and kickin at everythin in the room. This time it wouldn’t be me feelin their boots.

I wanted to whistle. Whistlin in the dark usually made me feel safe, but tonight I weren’t goin to feel safe no matter. I were fine walkin in the bright water. And fine so long as I saw the stars and the shinin light of the moon, but sometimes the trees touched from one side of the bank to the other and made a long dark tunnel. When I stepped into the blackness, I traced an X in the air, then spit to keep away the sperrits. Then I’d come out of the tunnel and into the silvery world again and walk, walk, walk through deep cold water up to my knees, and sometimes through shallow warm water most as gentle on me as a spring rain.

I reached my good hand through the hole in the sling, pulled out an apple, and chewed it through, even the core and the bitter of the seeds. Ahead of me there were another long stretch of trees archin over the crick and makin the black water look like it run into a cave.

I tried to move my packs to ease my hurtin, but what I really needed were rest. Just a short nap. I wouldn’t dare to sleep for fear of wastin too much time. I walked on a little farther; then the crick made a wide, easy sweep, and the current slowed till it sounded like it were murmurin to me.

I walked through the water till I reached the spot where it rested quiet against a cut in the bank. The sandy shore blanketed with leaves looked to be about as good a bed as I’d ever find. Around me, the sounds of crickets and the whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill voice of the goatsucker bird made me feel safe. He’d call till almost daylight but would stop if anyone passed nearby.

I shrugged out of the sling, dropped the sack on the ground, and used my feet to smooth a sandy place for a few minutes of nappin. Then I crouched on all fours, plumped the sling for a pillow, laid down, and shut my eyes.

I thought about that girl again, and a picture of her scairt face come into my head and wouldn’t leave. She didn’t know these woods and hideouts like I did, but what did I care? I hoped that I’d never see her again. Last thing I remembered were sayin to myself, “I’m better off without her.”

The voice is what woke me. It whispered low, “Don’t move.” I laid still, opened my eyes, squinted against the sun that slanted through the trees. I thought I’d been dreamin that voice. Then I heard it again. “Don’t move,” it said, and my eyes was open so’s I knowed I weren’t sleepin. I wanted to turn my head, find who were speakin, but the voice warned again, “Stay still.”

The smell of crushed sycamore leaves and the soft scrunchin sound of feet walkin acrost them let me know that someone were gettin closer. My heart thudded. I wanted to push up and run, but I felt froze to the ground.

A shadow moved between me and the sun. That trouble girl stood over me holdin a big branch. I opened my eyes wide and looked into hers. She tilted her head toward me and gave it a slow shake, like she were sad to do what she were goin to do. She lifted the branch above her afore I could move. I closed my eyes and yelled.