Chapter 4

Branches whipped at my face as we pushed through a tangle of undergrowth, feet pounding mud and pine needles, lungs on fire. Behind us, I could still hear them—two men from the town, shouting, crashing through the woods not far behind.

“They’re gaining!” I hissed to Lena.

Her only reply was a gasp and a furious surge forward. I followed, stumbling on exposed roots, praying we wouldn’t break an ankle before we found someplace—any place—to hide.

And then we saw it.

A sagging shack half-swallowed by the woods. Weathered boards, smoke curling faintly from a tilted chimney. It looked abandoned from a distance, but as we broke the tree line, I saw movement—someone inside.

Lena slowed. “No—” she started, but we didn’t have time to argue.

The door creaked open.

An old woman stood there—white, rail-thin, maybe seventy or more. Wisps of silver hair framed a leathery face. Her pale blue eyes landed on us for only a second before the shouts from behind caught her attention.

Without a word, she stepped back and motioned us inside.

I didn’t think. I pulled Lena with me.

The inside of the shack was musty, but warm. A quilt-covered cot, shelves lined with jars, a rusted kettle over a tiny fire. The woman didn’t ask questions. She just pointed to a hatch in the floor and said, “Down there. Now.”

We dropped into darkness, the wooden lid closing quietly above us.

It smelled of root vegetables and dust. Lena trembled beside me, and I reached for her hand in the dark. She didn’t pull away.

We heard the men outside a moment later.

“Ma’am!” one of them called. “You seen a white fella and a colored girl run through here?”

“Ran that way,” came the old woman’s voice—calm, steady, even amused. “Right past my chicken coop. Didn’t stop for breath.”

“You sure?”

“You doubtin’ my eyes, Calvin?” she said. “That’d be foolish.”

A long pause followed.

“Much obliged, Miss Mintie.” Their footsteps moved off.

We stayed silent. My heart thudded like a drum. After what felt like an eternity, the hatch opened again.

The woman peered down at us. “You can come out now. They’re gone.”

We emerged slowly, stiff from crouching, brushing cobwebs from our shoulders.

“I—” I started, but she held up a hand.

“I don’t need to know why you’re running,” she said, looking from me to Lena. “Just that you needed to.”

Lena was staring at her like she’d grown a second head.

“You helped us,” Lena said, her voice quiet. “Why?”

The woman smiled, but there was no sweetness in it—only something bone-deep and weathered. “I know what fear looks like. Seen enough of it in my life to know when someone’s wearing it honest.”

Then she turned back to the fire like she hadn’t just saved our lives.

The woman ladled something thick and steaming into three chipped bowls, her movements practiced, efficient. Her shack might’ve looked ready to collapse from the outside, but inside it was solid in all the ways that counted—warm, lived-in, and stocked with years of knowledge.

“You can call me Mintie,” she said finally, settling onto a stool near the fire. “Short for Araminta Bragg. My folks called me that before the war of ‘12. Name stuck.”

“Thank you,” I said. My voice was rougher than I meant it to be—part gratitude, part the cough that had been creeping up my throat since the last cold night.

She gave me a long, measuring look before her eyes slid to Lena. “Is she your girl?”

I froze. I felt Lena stiffen beside me.

Mintie didn’t ask it like she was looking for scandal. It was more like she was bracing herself to judge whether she’d done the right thing by helping us at all.

Lena answered before I could. “No,” she said, her tone flat but clear. “Ain’t like that.”

Mintie’s eyes narrowed, but then she nodded, slowly, as if some internal weight had shifted.

“Good,” she muttered. “Didn’t figure you for the type, but I’ve been wrong before.” She handed me one of the bowls and thrust a wooden spoon into it. “Eat before it gets cold.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. Whatever it was—some kind of root stew with bitter greens and beans—it was the best thing I’d tasted in days. Lena ate slower, more carefully, like every bite had to prove itself before she trusted it.

Mintie watched us eat in silence. Eventually, she pointed at me. “You’re sick. I can hear it in your breathing.”

“It’s just a little cough,” I said.

“Coughs don’t stay little if you let ‘em dig in,” she said, standing. She crossed to a wall lined with bundles of dried herbs hanging like ghostly bouquets and pulled a few down, murmuring to herself.

“Yerba santa for your lungs. Mullein too, if I can find what’s left of it.”

I didn’t recognize a word of it, but I nodded like I did.

When she came back with a bundle, she handed it to me, wrapped in cloth. “Steep that in hot water. Three times a day, ‘til you don’t wheeze like a bellows.”

“Thank you,” I said again. “We owe you.”

Mintie snorted. “Ain’t about owing. I see what I see. You two’re running, and you’ve got reason. Don’t need a preacher to tell me what side I’m on.”

She sipped from her own bowl, not bothering with a spoon, then added, “You’ll rest here tonight. I’ve got floor space and an extra blanket. Come morning, you’ll be heading east if you know what’s good for you. West will take you back toward Hot Springs.”

Lena and I exchanged a glance. For the first time in days, her shoulders weren’t up around her ears. Mine either. The floor was hard, and the blanket was thin. But we were warm, and we were alive.

She lay just a few inches away—close enough that I could feel her heat, but far enough that the awkwardness sat between us like a third presence. She didn’t speak, and neither did I. Even turning onto my side felt like too much sound. I kept still and listened to the wheeze of the wind against the old boards and the occasional rustle of Mintie moving in her bed across the room.

At some point, I drifted into a shallow sleep, the kind that resets your body but doesn’t touch your mind. My dreams were broken pieces—home, then woods, then Lena’s eyes, all sharp and watchful. When I woke, gray light leaked in through the gaps in the planks.

We rose stiffly. Lena didn’t meet my eyes as she folded the blanket. I didn’t push it. Mintie already had something hot brewing over the fire—some mix of cornmeal, dried berries, and wild greens. I couldn’t name it, but I didn’t care. It filled my stomach and reminded me what it felt like to be human.

After we ate, I asked, “Do you know what direction Greeneville is from here?”

Mintie nodded slowly. She went to the wall, pulled down a piece of charcoal, and sketched a rough path on a strip of bark. “It’s west-northwest. Week’s walk or more if you stay off the roads, which you should. You’ll have to cross the French Broad, though.”

That gave me pause. I’d seen it before in my own time. Wide, fast, and this time of year—angry.

“How deep?” I asked.

“Too deep for pride. Wide too. Cold,” she said. “Snowmelt makes it mean. You’ll need to find a narrow spot, a place where the current splits around islands if you can. Maybe find a log to straddle or trees close together you can rig with rope.”

Lena absorbed the words like she was taking notes in her head. “And after Greeneville?”

Mintie’s gaze flicked between us. “If you make it that far, keep moving north. Abingdon’s the next mark. Another week. Hills’ll slow you, but they’ll hide you too.”

She set down the bark map and looked me in the eye. “Again ... ain’t my place to ask questions. But the road you’re on...” She paused, her mouth tightening. “You best be quick and quiet.”

Lena dipped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

I felt something tighten in my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or the weight of what we were walking into.

We thanked her—profusely. Lena did most of the talking. I think Mintie preferred it that way.

We stepped outside into crisp morning air. No clouds, no voices, just the sound of the forest waking up around us.

As we left her little shack behind, I looked back once. Mintie was standing in the doorway, arms folded, face unreadable.

Then she closed the door. And we started walking.

The narrow trail wound through a stretch of low trees, most of them leafing out in early green. The ground was soft with last night’s rain, and every step squished just enough to remind me of where we were—out here, miles from anything I used to think of as real.

We hadn’t said much since we left Mintie’s. Lena walked just ahead of me, quiet as ever, her shoulders relaxed but alert. A raven called overhead, its voice sharp and eerie. My cough was still there, but duller now, like it had lost some of its anger. I owed that to the little pouch of herbs Mintie pressed into my hand that morning.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“She surprised me,” I said.

Lena didn’t look back. “Who?”