Whatever you do to a robin will be done back to you—break an egg and something of yours will be broken. Always tell the robin “good day” when you see it or hear its song, and your luck will be good for the day.

Scufflin sounds, then Armour’s voice, deep and clear.

“Stop.”

Then two, maybe three voices wound all together.

Zenobia woke; Auntie mumbled and turned over.

“What?” Zenobia whispered.

“Somebody here, in camp. I heard Armour yell. Heard people talkin. We best hide.”

I moved the blanket aside, and Zenobia and me both set up. She leant over me, squeezed Auntie’s shoulder, and whispered, “Wake up, Auntie. Someone here.”

One by one we slid off the back of the wagon and crouched low. Anyone acrost the clearin wouldn’t see us.

We hunched over and made our way toward cover. I were slowin them down, but they wouldn’t let me stop—Auntie holdin on to my good arm and me holdin on to Zenobia. We needed to get out of the clearin and into the woods.

Who had tracked us or found us here? Now what would happen?

Orion disappeared. Long wisps of clouds, the mottled gray of Moses cat, lightened, their bellies turnin pink and rosy.

We stepped from the dirt of the clearin where the wagon rested and into the soft, leaf-strewn gloom of the woods. Ahead of us, a cluster of boulders stood beside a deer trail. Auntie, Zenobia, and me climbed the back of the biggest rock, stepped over the top, and worked our way down to the cool, mossy shelter on the other side.

More sounds. Cracklin of someone walkin, steppin on twigs. The crunch of leaves and snappin, then what sounded like a pebble skitterin. More sounds, like there were more than one man stalkin—maybe two or three.

Long as there were only one I felt like we had some chance of hidin or runnin, but three changed things for us. Three men the likes of Shag and his kind, and the three of us—me barely able to walk, Auntie just gettin better, and Zenobia with her broke arm tryin to help the both of us.

From somewhere behind us, I heard more footsteps. Hushed talkin in deep voices.

The three of us held hands and hunkered back against the big rock.

Zenobia’s eyes was squeezed shut. Auntie faced to me, shakin her head a slow no, no, no.

I wanted us to get up and hightail it, but when I tried to, Zenobia pulled at me, tuggin me back to the ground.

How long afore the slave hunters found us? Tracked our six footprints acrost the clearin, into the woods, and here.

I thought of all the times me and Zenobia hid together. In the cellar, in the cave, in the trees, and in the attic of Auntie’s house. Here we was, hidin again. Always hidin, always afeared, always runnin from someone. When could we ever stop runnin?

No more voices. No more sounds of walkin. Was someone out there just waitin for us to move? Waitin like a barn cat after a mouse? Did Armour tell them he were alone? Where was Enoch and Better now? Already caught? Or scairt and hidin like us?

One of the old bay horses neighed. I heard the sound of quiet talkin and the clink of metal. I smelt a quickenin fire and heard the wake-up call of the robin.

I thought, Good day, robin. Help us change our luck.

More clinkin metal. Were someone hitchin up the horses? Takin Armour and Enoch, Better and the wagon away?

After a few quiet minutes, Zenobia opened her eyes and whispered, “I think we safe.”

I started to breathe again. Started to think on how we would keep walkin north, maybe not in plain sight like we’d planned, but headin north somehow.

More noise. The horses movin slow. Voices. Voices louder, closer.

Then a scramblin sound of someone crawlin up the side of the big rock shelterin us. The little hairs on the back of my neck bristled like they do when Pa is watchin me.

Zenobia reached for my hand and squeezed. I reached for Auntie’s hand and held on.

Then a scratch, scratch, scratch on my head and shoulder, and a leafy twig of an oak tree, its little acorns just startin to plump, dropped beside us.