If you see a flock of birds, make a wish and do not look back at the birds again or your wish won’t come true.

Crack! I shrunk myself down over Zenobia to protect her and couldn’t help myself from lookin back over my shoulder.

The boy stood behind me, that long stick split into two pieces. He bent over Zenobia and said, “You got yerself a broke arm. We’ll set it on this stick, but it goin to hurt.”

Zenobia rolled slow-like onto her good side and let out a cry. I could see her arm all crumpled backward.

We set her up, propped her against the tree, and the pain, the pain, it made her black out.

“Quick,” the boy said. “Help me get her arm straight.”

We worked fast, and though Zenobia’s eyes was closed like she were fast asleep, she moaned and whimpered.

“Now lay that stick onto it,” he ordered.

I set the stick against Zenobia’s crooked arm and held it.

The boy jumped up and ran to a bundle on the ground that must have fell down from the tree with him.

“Our sacks!” I said.

He just looked at me, grabbed my torn apple sling, reached inside, and pulled out some jerky to gnaw.

When he passed me a piece of my own meat, I said a thank-you and then wondered why I were thankin someone for givin me somethin he stole from me.

The boy and I worked quick, windin and windin the strip of white cloth around the stick and the arm until both was wrapped like a cocoon.

Zenobia moaned again. I ran to the edge of the crick, dipped my skirt into water, and come back to wipe all the blood and dirt from her scratched, tear-streaked face.

“Lark, Lark,” she whispered. “We gots to leave this hainted place. Lark, my arm on fire, on fire.”

Zenobia slipped back, her eyes closed, her head lolled to one side.

“Girl,” the boy said. “Help me lift her and lay her over my good shoulder.”

I held Zenobia against the tree. The boy got onto his knees, stuck his head through Zenobia’s good arm, and stood with her danglin over his shoulder, loose as a rag doll.

“Which way we goin?” he asked.

“East,” I said.

“Why not north?” he asked. “North to free soil?”

“Toward the risin sun,” I said, and pointed at the thin line of pink beginnin to color the sky. “We’re goin to Waterford. Nobody will be expectin us to head east to a town.”

“Towns ain’t nothin but trouble—trouble and peoples,” the boy said, shakin his head at me.

“This one is different,” I said. “It’s a Quaker town, and they’ll help us find a safe way north. Leastwise as safe as we could ever be.”

“You tellin me that everyone there is good, cause I don’t believe it,” he said. “I ain’t met many good whites.”

“My preacher’s wife told me that most of them Quakers are good. We just have to watch and take our chances. It’s our only hope,” I said.

The big boy turned and walked into the woods carryin the weight of Zenobia like she were a bird bone. Quietly, almost so quietly that I couldn’t tell if I were imaginin it or hearin it, the runaway said, “Look for signs.” Not a twig snapped nor a leaf crackled as they disappeared into the forest.

What’d he mean by “look for signs”?

I hoisted our sacks onto my back and picked up a leafy hickory branch to brush our footprints from the sandy ground. Swish, swish, I worked my way backward, felt something soft under my toes, and looked down. Smilin up at me were my raggedy, dirty Hannah doll. I grabbed her up and brushed at her, then tucked her into my sack.

“Welcome back, Hannah,” I said, grinnin like I’d just found myself a lucky ear of red corn. Maybe things was goin to get better for us now.

When I reached the meadow, I turned and threw the leafy branch over the bluff and into the bend of the rushin crick. No footsteps told the story of where we’d been, but I knowed that the dogs could still smell us. I prayed for a rain to come afore Pa and the dogs come back this way.

I run for the cover of the woods. The three lumpy sacks poundin against my back slowed me down some. Just as the sun rose above the tree line, I stepped into the welcome darkness of the forest. At first, I couldn’t see nothin, but my eyes soon grew used to the dim light. I searched the ground for a sign that would tell me which way the runaway and Zenobia had gone, but there was no tracks. How could they disappear so fast when they only started runnin a few minutes afore me?

What if I couldn’t find them? What if I never saw Zenobia again? Worst yet, what if they was caught?

Small patches of sunlight slanted through the branches. I follered a narrow trail toward the east and stopped by a sassafras tree to peel off a curl of bark for chewin. I picked one of the mitten-shaped leaves, held it up to my hand, then tucked it into my shirt for good luck.

I walked steady, and when I broke into the blindin sunlight of a clearin, a deep sound like big guns boomed above me.

The sky turned dark with the wings of wood pigeons. I wanted to make a wish on them then turn away, but afore I had the chance, there were a loud boom, boom, boom that echoed through the trees. Pigeons fell from the sky.

Boom, boom, boom, the shots come again, but this time the pigeons kept circling as though they was all one.

Boom, a shot crashed into a nearby tree, and a huge chunk blew apart. Someone were shootin at somethin, or someone, or me. I took off runnin.