July third to August eleventh are the dog days and can be the most unlucky days of the year.

Should I keep goin east toward Waterford, where I told the boy to run to? Should I turn and head north? I argued inside myself, tryin to figure what my pa would expect me to do and where the runaway and Zenobia would go. East, west, north? No matter that I’d told him to head for Waterford.

I took a step, then stepped back, shook my head, and headed east again. I shivered and hugged tight to myself. My mind wandered to the cabin, where my narrow bed set beside the stove. How I would love to burrow underneath Mama’s warm quilt, but I had to keep on walkin.

I looked down. There, laid out in a line, were another long twig arrow pointin my way.

“Just walk,” I ordered myself. “Foller them, one, two, three.” Somehow countin each step kept me goin along the trail. I walked over the twigs, kicked them apart, and kept on.

What were the worst thing that could happen if Pa caught me? He’d give me a beatin, a bad beatin, and drag me back to the cabin. I were just as much a slave as Zenobia and the boy. But now that I had spent some days without the beatin and the shamin, well, if he caught me, I would just bide my time and run away again. Somehow I would break free. I knew, though, that for the runaway boy and Zenobia, things would be worse, much worse, if they was caught.

Ahead of me I could see a short, arrow-tipped run of shiny white pebbles. I headed toward them and scuffled through the line.

The sun stood straight above the trees, and the day turned mean and hot. I looked up at the clearin sky and down at my soaked clothes—they steamed like a boilin kettle. I shook, shook so much my teeth clacked together. I were burnin hot and freezin cold all at once. My head ached, ached so much I felt like cryin, but there weren’t nothin for me to do cept try to keep walkin.

I wiped at my sweaty face and reached into my pocket to rub the smooth of my buckeye.

“Keep goin, girl,” I said aloud. “Mama, am I goin the right way?” My eyes burnt till it hurt me to look at the trail.

“Ninety-nine, one hunnert,” I said, still countin my steps.

“One hunnert and one,” I said, thinkin on how my life changed for the good, even with all the bad, after Zenobia and I found each other. But now I had other problems, like worryin about Zenobia when I’d never worried about no one else afore. I missed her, missed havin the feel of a true friend and sister. Even with all the worryin bound up around her, it were still better to have her in my life than not.

“Two hunnert,” I mumbled.

I walked steady on, stoppin only to pull stickers out of my bloodied feet and to try to keep from shiverin. Once in a while I would come upon another line of pebbles or another twig arrow and brush it apart with my foot as I passed. I kept on walkin, but my body felt like it’d been mule-kicked.

Had the black boy left the signs for me? Or did the rock-throwin red-haired boy leave them? Were I walkin to a safe place? Or walkin straight into a trap?

I don’t know how I kept a-goin, but by late afternoon, the woods ahead of me thinned, and I could see sunny meadows and fields. Waterford town must be nearby. I slowed, slipped my sack down, pulled out some meat and a slice of apple, and stood chewin like our old cow, Hildie.

“Look for signs.” Those words kept dancin round me, weavin in and out of my head and tauntin me.

My curiosity tickled and nudged, but I were so tired, so sick, that I could barely creep to the edge of the woods. I looked acrost at a town that seemed as tiny as the acorn villages I built under our big oak tree. Stone and brick houses, barns, stores, a mill, what looked to be a church, a blacksmith’s shop, and a school dotted the land. On the outskirts set a small gray log cabin surrounded by a tall fence and a patchwork garden of flowers. Clothes flashed and swung on a line. A dog barked, and in the field, a man moved a scythe back and forth, back and forth, steady as the pendulum of my grandpa’s old mantel clock.

No walkin acrost the open fields durin the daylight. I looked up and around at the trees, and picked a likely one to climb. I tied my sacks together and slung them over the lowest branch, then hoisted myself up, then up again, draggin the sacks behind me. I were some slow now, the cold shiverin all mixed up with the hot sweat comin through my skin and soakin my already-wet clothes. I climbed high enough so’s I could see clear acrost the fields, then tied the sacks to a branch and settled in for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know how long I perched there, but I dozed on and off, sweatin and shakin, then wakin when the sounds of loud voices and barkin dogs seeped in and out of my dreams.

I pinched myself on the arm. “Mama, am I awake or asleep?” I asked. My wakin world and sleepin world mixed together inside me.

More barkin and yellin. The wind blew from the east, lucky for me, carryin my scent away from the dogs. I ducked my head down, blinked my eyes to clear the blurriness, and peered through branches toward the town. From where I set, I could see groups of men runnin from house to house. The dogs run ahead of them, circled and lunged, howled and bayed. Them dogs went wild when they got to the fence surroundin the little gray log cabin.

I saw someone step out of the cabin and walk to the fence, then watched as other people streamed down a pathway and stopped outside the yard. I’ve got some keen hearin, but I couldn’t tell what were goin on.

Then I saw him. The young boy in the bright-blue shirt run up to the men, talked to them, waved his arms, and pointed toward the woods.

“Oh law,” I said. “Wind blowin west or not, I’m caught now. These are the dog days, and nothin good can come of them.”

Everythin went quiet, or went quiet in my head, cause them dogs never did quit their barkin. I started to climb down and then stopped. What good would it do? Lord knew that I didn’t have enough time or strength to get down and hightail it.