A shooting star is a sign that someone’s soul is journeying to heaven.

The men and dogs left on a run. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. The boy knew that I were somewhere west of town, but he sent them the other way. My breath caught and took, and I realized that I’d been holding it inside me while I watched. I clung tight to the tree.

The day spent, but I lost track of it, wakin and sleepin, burnin inside, and never knowin what were real or dreams. I knew I were some sick, and I didn’t know how long I could hold on.

Night come. Soft light shone from windows, and shadows moved back and forth acrost them. The smell of woodsmoke and meat drifted over the field, makin me yearn for a cooked meal.

I reached into the fattest sack, pulled out another hard piece of dried meat, and chewed it slow. I were thirstin, thirstin so bad that all I could think of were water, sweet water fillin my mouth and tricklin down my burnin, sore throat.

Up through the tree branches, I saw a star streak acrost the sky. I hoped that didn’t mean Zenobia or the runaway was bound for heaven.

Branch by branch I made my way down, the sacks draggin and catchin. Finally, I dropped them at the foot of the tree, then swung myself down beside them. I stuffed a handful of apple slices into my mouth, patted my Hannah doll, and shouldered the sacks.

My foot stepped on a small rock. I bent over, picked it up, wiped it on my skirt, and stuck it into my mouth. Rollin it around, suckin on it, just suckin at that rock set my mouth to waterin.

“Here we go, Mama,” I whispered.

Pickin my way through the woods got harder. Every time I set down my foot I wondered if I could ever lift it again to take another step.

I broke past the last fringe of trees and walked the edge of a meadow. In front of me, another arrow of shiny white pebbles pointed to a knee-high field of corn. I kicked at the pebbles, sent them flyin, and kept walkin.

Lights in the town went out one by one. The moon shone acrost the fields and glinted on the corn like it were silver. I squatted, watched, and listened. I heard the rushin water of the millrace, the creakin of the mill wheel, and the rustlin of the corn. I could smell the sweet pine of the mill, and from somewhere nearby, a catbird called and mewed, but not a soul moved.

Another arrow-tipped line of shiny white pebbles pointed to a narrow pathway. I scuffed the pebbles aside and crept toward the outskirts of the sleepin town.

The lights from the window of the little gray cabin made three yellow patches. I headed toward them without payin attention to where I were—until I stubbed my toe and looked down. I were on the edge of a buryin ground, small gravestones pricklin through the grass like thumbs. A long stone buildin stood on a rise above me, its moon shadow markin an inky darkness.

I backed out. That weren’t no place I wanted to be; bad, bad luck to walk into a buryin ground at night. I shivered again, this time from bein scairt and bein cold and hot all mixed together. I picked up a handful of dirt and sifted a thin line of it through my fingers and onto the ground between me and the graves. No haint would dare cross over and foller.

One of the lights went out in the cabin. Now it looked like two yellow eyes stared out at me.

Somethin thudded. I stopped in the middle of a step, my sacks thumpin against my back. I heard a sound like laundry bein shook out, and then a slap as somethin slammed.

When I looked down, I saw another line of shiny white pebbles runnin alongside a crickity, knobblety wooden fence. Tall hollyhocks peered over the top, and moths big as my hands flew in and out of their cup blooms. So still, so still and peaceful, that I could hear the whirrin of their wings.

I stopped and watched the little cabin. Nothin moved.

My hand skipped along the palins of the fence, one by one, till I reached the front gate. The smell of roses, mint, and sage wrapped round me.

When I looked down, I saw another short line of pebbles pointin toward a porch. I nudged them with my feet so’s nobody would see them and walked through the gate. Below the porch, a large pot, stinkin with the smell of lye, bubbled and boiled. Beneath it, a bed of coals glowed a wicked orange. I looked toward the cabin and saw first one, then the other window darken.

I stepped through the gate and looked around the yard, then slowly walked up a camomile pathway. Every step smelt like apples.

“Thee is welcome here,” a quiet voice said.

I turned and started to run, but my knees crumpled and my feet felt like two heavy stones.

The voice come again, soft, wavery, like water ripplin acrost a pond.

“Thee is welcome here, friend,” the voice said again.

Welcome here? How could I trust anyone? My legs shook, and my eyes filled with tears. That was the last thing I remembered.