Chapter 10

By midmorning, we reached the edge of Gallipolis. It was smaller than I’d pictured — a quiet river town with low brick buildings, a few wagons moving down the muddy street, and the sharp smell of coal smoke in the air. The Ohio River gleamed behind us, broad and calm now that the danger was behind.

For the first time in weeks, I could breathe without feeling hunted. Lena walked beside me, her shoulders square, her head high. The moment her shoes touched dry ground on the northern bank last night, something in her had changed. She looked around now, taking everything in — the sound of hammers from a smithy, a woman calling to her children from a doorway, the far-off whistle of a steamboat — as if memorizing it all.

We found a place near the docks where I thought I might ask for work or information. Before I could open my mouth, a man approached — tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin weathered by years in the sun. His clothes were worn but neat, and there was an easy confidence in the way he carried himself.

“You two new in town?” he asked. His voice was deep, calm — cautious, but not unkind.

I nodded. “Just arrived from downriver.”

He looked at me, then at Lena. His gaze lingered for only a second, but I saw understanding flicker there. He stepped closer, speaking low. “Name’s Elijah Turner. I work the docks, help folks now and then, when help’s needed.”

There was no question what kind of “help” he meant.

Lena’s eyes met his. “We came a long way,” she said quietly.

Elijah nodded, his face softening. “Then you’ve done what many can’t. But listen here — you’re safe, for now. Don’t mean you’re welcome everywhere.”

I frowned. “We crossed into free territory. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

He gave a slow, knowing smile — not mocking, just sad. “Counts, sure. But freedom’s a word folks don’t all agree on. You’ll find it’s a finer line than you’d like.” He looked around before continuing. “You two best head west toward Athens. There’s a woman there — Sarah Nicholas. Wealthy widow. She’s helped plenty of travelers make a clean start. Kind, smart, knows her way around the law.”

I thanked him, but he wasn’t finished. He glanced again at Lena, then back at me. His voice dropped. “One more thing. Folks around here ... they notice things. The way a man looks at a woman. The way a woman looks back. Ain’t right, but that’s how it is. You understand?”

It took me a second. Then I realized he’d seen it — the way my hand had brushed hers a moment earlier. The warmth that lingered between us even when we weren’t touching.

Lena lowered her eyes, and I felt her hand slip from mine. I wanted to say something, to tell Elijah we didn’t mean to draw attention, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

He sighed. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. But you’ll need to be careful, both of you. There’s freedom on paper, and then there’s the freedom you have to fight for every day.”

We talked a little longer — about the road to Athens, where to find food, what towns to avoid. Elijah gave us a quiet blessing before he left, saying, “You made it this far. Don’t stop now.”

When he walked away, Lena and I stood watching the river for a while.

She spoke first. “He’s right, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“But I don’t care what they think.”

I turned to her. “Neither do I.”

She gave me a little smile, the kind that warmed through the chill in my chest. For a long time, we just stood there, the wind coming off the river tugging at her hair.

We left Gallipolis before sundown, heading west on the dirt road Elijah had told us about. That night, we found a small clearing beneath a stand of tall pines. We shared a bit of bread and dried fruit, and when the stars came out, Lena rested her head on my shoulder.

“We’re really here,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, my hand finding hers again. “We made it.”

Neither of us said it aloud, but we both knew — freedom was a beginning, not an ending.

The road out of Gallipolis wound through low hills and patches of forest, the kind of quiet countryside that seemed to stretch on forever. The morning air was cool and smelled of wet grass. Every step away from the river felt like another layer of tension peeling off my back. For once, I wasn’t listening for shouts or hoofbeats behind us.

Lena walked a few paces ahead, her skirt brushing the tall weeds that lined the path. The sun caught her hair when the wind moved it, and for a moment I just watched — grateful she was here, grateful we were both still alive to see another sunrise.

We didn’t talk much at first. The silence between us wasn’t awkward; it was the kind that came from understanding, from not needing to fill every space with words. Once, when we stopped to rest near a creek, she splashed water onto her face and looked up at me, smiling.

“I almost can’t believe it,” she said. “No one’s chasing us. No dogs, no fear in my stomach. Just quiet.”

“Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “Like I’ve forgotten how to breathe easy.”

We sat for a while, letting the sound of running water fill the silence. She pulled the small locket from her pocket — the one that held her mother’s photograph — and turned it over in her hands.

“She’d be proud of you,” I said.

Lena’s eyes softened. “I hope so. She always said freedom wasn’t just a place you reach. It’s a thing you have to claim for yourself.”

I thought about that while we walked again later. How freedom wasn’t something either of us had really owned until now — her from the past, me from the future, both trapped in different cages.

By afternoon, we came across a small farm with an apple orchard on the edge of the property. A gray-haired man waved from a distance. He didn’t seem hostile, but we kept walking. I’d learned that sometimes it was better not to invite curiosity.

The road narrowed as the day wore on, cutting through the woods. We found a clearing by sunset and decided to stop for the night. I started a small fire while Lena laid out the blanket. She sat close to the flame, rubbing her hands together, her face bathed in the flickering light.

“Do you think this woman — Mrs. Nicholas — will really help us?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said. “Elijah seemed sure of it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You trust people easily.”

“Not always. Just the ones who’ve got kind eyes.”

That made her smile — the kind that reached her eyes and stayed there.

After dinner, we lay under the blanket together, watching the sparks drift upward. I could feel her warmth through the fabric of her dress, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“Caleb,” she murmured, “what do you think we’ll do when we find a place to settle?”

“I guess we’ll figure it out. Maybe find some work, a home ... just live.”

“Live,” she repeated softly, as though testing the word. “I’d like that.”

The fire burned low, and the world went quiet around us — only the sound of crickets and the occasional crackle of wood. She shifted closer, resting her head against my shoulder.

For a long time, I didn’t move. I just let her stay there, both of us staring into the dying fire. There was peace in that moment — fragile, but real.

When I finally closed my eyes, I thought of what Elijah had said the day before: freedom wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. And I was starting to believe we might actually have a future to build.

It was late the next morning when we reached Athens. Our legs were sore and our clothes were full of road dust. Compared to the towns we’d passed through before, Athens felt almost alive — carriages rattling by, people talking on the corners, the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer somewhere down the street. But beneath all that, there was something else — a sense that eyes followed us longer than they should have.

Lena walked close beside me, her head lowered. We were cognizant of the warning we’d received in Gallipolis — that even in free states, the color of her skin could draw the wrong kind of attention. Still, I felt every glance like a stone in my gut.

We didn’t linger long in the town center. Following the directions Elijah had given us, we took a small lane leading out of town toward the hills. It wound through tall grass and ended at a stately white house with green shutters and a wide porch. It looked out of place — too clean, too calm — but there was a kind of warmth in its stillness.