The Voice

5.

I could no longer live in this village and participate in the cruelty of destroying someone else in order to keep myself clean of all but the “good” feelings, and I was afraid of what might happen to me if the Elders decided I was no longer in harmony with the rest of our community. There must have been others before me who had seen and understood what we had done by not having to live with the weight of our own sorrows. What had happened to those others? Had they tried to change the heart of a village, or had they slipped away one day to escape what they could not change and could not endure?

Or did they lie beneath the blank markers that festered in the thorny, weed-choked part of our burial ground that was set aside for the Un-Named—the ones who had done something so offensive their names were “forgotten” in the village records and family trees.

Alone, I could escape, could vanish into the vastness of the world—or, at least, vanish into the streets of Vision. I was certain of that. But if I tried to help The Voice and was caught . . . I would suffer a tragic—and fatal—accident and be buried under one of those blank markers, just one more of the Un-Named. I was certain of that too.

So knowing what was at stake, I spent a week watching, looking, seeing. And the more I focused on the need to leave this village, the more things subtly changed.

An Elder, claiming his cart horse had turned vicious and had deliberately knocked him down into a pile of manure, had taken to leaving the poor animal tied up to the hitching rail behind the Elders’ Hall, still harnessed to the cart without a handful of grain or a sip of water. Anyone who looked could see the horse was mistreated, but everyone averted their eyes and didn’t disagree with the Elder’s right to discipline his own animal, even though I’d heard my father mutter that, most likely, the poor beast had been doing nothing more than trying to get to its feed bucket when it had knocked the Elder down.

The men muttered, the women made moody cakes, and everyone pretended they couldn’t see the horse and, therefore, couldn’t see its misery.

I saw the misery. I also saw a horse and cart that would be easy to steal.

Then there was the blank marker stone that suddenly appeared behind The Voice’s house, far enough from the kitchen door not to be a nuisance and close enough that it could be used as a step up into the cart.

Every day I watched the village and the people. Every day I tucked a few more things into the traveling bag that looked like a small trunk made of cloth stretched over a wooden frame. I had bought it at the bazaar, using my purchases as the excuse to acquire it. Dariden laughed at me when he saw it, saying the cloth could be torn so easily, I might as well not use anything at all. True, the cloth wasn’t as sturdy as a wooden trunk, but it had one important advantage: I could carry it by myself.

By the time everything was ready, my biggest worry was Tahnee. She tried to act as if nothing had changed, but I could tell by the leashed desperation in her eyes that everything had changed—and I realized that she, too, had been waiting for something to happen and had been growing more and more anxious with each passing day.

I could not wish her scheme to fail because, like me, she was no longer in harmony with the village and staying would only do her harm. But I did wish with all my heart that her scheme was delayed just a few days longer, even though I knew my own disappearance would make her escape all but impossible.

Which is when things began going wrong. Just little things. Just enough things for me to realize how easy it had been for me to move forward with this plan.

“Nalah, what are you doing with that skirt?” Mother asked, catching me as I tried to sneak out of the storage cupboard that held our out-of-season clothes.

“I—” My father’s mother had made it for me two years ago, before she got funny in the head and died in her sleep one night. The dark green material was of good quality, which Mother had declared a waste, since it couldn’t be worn in decent company, and the needlework was exquisite. My grandmother had kept all the beads, spangles, and tiny mirrors that had decorated her own wedding dress and had gifted them to me on a skirt.

When Mother protested, my father’s only comment was that it was more practical to have the beads on the front of the skirt than on the part I sat on. Which proved that the male part of my father’s brain had been asleep when he looked at the skirt, because the beaded vines and mirrored flowers were intended to draw the eye to the untouched flower between my thighs. It was a skirt a girl wore when she was ready to attract a husband.

I had been too young to wear it when my grandmother had made it for me, and there was no one in this village whose attention I wanted to attract. But I wanted to take the skirt with me. I wanted the hope that I would wear it someday.

“I was going to take it over to Tahnee’s tonight, along with a few other things,” I said, suddenly inspired. “We’re going to try on clothes, see what we still like. Maybe trade.” I said this last bit in a low mumble, which made Mother sigh but also made her shoulders relax.

“The three of you used to trade so often, half the time I wasn’t sure if I was washing your clothes or theirs,” she said.

I nodded, then looked around to be sure I wouldn’t be overheard, even though I knew Mother and I were alone in the house. “Tahnee’s a little unhappy about the way Kobbi has been acting lately. I guess married life changes a girl?”

Mother’s face softened with understanding as she put an arm around my shoulders. “It can be a difficult adjustment for some girls.” She hesitated, then added, “Maybe you should make a moody cake.”

I shivered and knew she felt that shiver, but I wrinkled my nose and said, “I’d rather try on clothes.”

“You’re my daughter, Nalah, and I do care about you. You know that?”

I looked into her eyes and felt the pain of love. She did care. And that was why she couldn’t afford to see. And why I would stop looking if I stayed. If I held a little daughter in my arms, would I let her flesh carry the weight of sorrow? Would I let the Black Pustules form and listen to her scream in pain when they were lanced—and see the scars that would mark her when the hard cores were extracted? Or would I make a moody cake and teach that little girl the proper way to present it to the person whose sole purpose in our village was to swallow such offerings?

I kissed her cheek. “I don’t need a moody cake.”

I hurried to my room to pack the skirt, then hurried out to find Tahnee and let her know my mother thought I would be at her house tonight. But when I found her sitting under the big tree where she, Kobbi, and I used to play on hot summer days, everything changed again.

“Kobbi’s father denounced her,” Tahnee said in a hushed, tearful voice. “She tried to tell her mother that Chayne was doing something bad to her, something that made her head feel funny. Her father overheard her and dragged her to the Elders’ Hall. He denounced her and demanded that her name be struck from the family record.”

My chest felt so tight, I could hardly breathe. “She’s an orphan?”

Tahnee nodded. “And I heard that Chayne is so shamed because she’s an orphan by unnatural means that he may denounce her as his wife, since he’ll no longer receive the other two parts of the dowry.”

“She can’t inherit because she no longer exists in the eyes of her family.” And I could see Kobbi’s fate if I went ahead with my plan—because an orphan’s life is one of sorrow.

“Listen,” I said, grabbing hold of Tahnee’s arm. “I’m coming over to your house with a bag of clothes. That’s what I told my mother.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“You’re going to pack a bag of clothes—basics and the things too dear to leave behind. But don’t pack a bag that’s so heavy you can’t carry it. You’re going to tell your mother that you and I are going over to Kobbi’s house. We’re going to try on clothes like we used to do when we were girls, and we’re going to make moody cakes to help Kobbi feel better because she’s our friend. After a denouncement, a man has three days to change his mind if he spoke in haste or out of anger, so if Kobbi comes to her senses, her father might restore her to the family. That’s what you’re going to tell your mother.”

Tahnee wiped the tears off her face and gave me a long look. “What are we really going to be doing?”

“Escaping. We’re going back to Vision.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment I wondered if I had been wrong to tell her. Then the fire of hope filled her eyes.

“The three of us?” she asked.

I hesitated, and felt as if the world itself waited for my answer. “Four of us.”

At dinner that night, even Dariden was subdued, although he rallied once when he heard I was going over to Kobbi’s house with Tahnee.

“You shouldn’t be friends with the likes of her,” he told me, glancing at our father for approval of such a manly opinion.

“What happened to Kobbi could happen to anyone,” I said, helping myself to another spoonful of rice. Then I looked my brother in the eyes. “If I had ended up married to someone like Chayne, it could have happened to me.”

My father made a tongue-cluck sound of disapproval for my criticism of Chayne, but Dariden paled as he realized I knew what Chayne had been doing to Kobbi. And as he stared into my eyes, he understood that, with the least provocation, Tahnee and I would spread that information to every female in the village, and any standing Chayne had in our community would be crushed under the rumors that he drugged his young wife in order to do unnatural things in the marriage bed.

“You’re looking pale, Dariden,” I said, putting enough concern in my voice to draw Mother’s attention. “Perhaps you should stay in tonight.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Mother asked him.

Cornered, Dariden just stared at his plate. “Been working hard,” he mumbled. “Guess I should turn in early tonight.”

So I was free to leave the house, secure in the knowledge that Dariden and I wouldn’t cross paths tonight. Even if he retreated to his room, he wouldn’t be able to sneak out the window, because Mother always checked on us at regular intervals when we weren’t feeling well. Dariden had learned this the hard way as a boy when he had lied to Mother about not feeling well in order to sneak out with his friends, and had found our father waiting for him when he snuck back in.

I left the house with my travel bag and stopped just long enough to slip into our little barn and take a small bag of feed and an old round pan that could hold water. I didn’t have a water skin, and that was a worry. It turned out to be a foolish worry, because Tahnee had bought a water skin at the bazaar and hidden it under her other purchases.

We didn’t see many people on the way to Kobbi’s house, and those who saw us looked away when they noticed the bags of clothes and realized where we were going.

The woman who opened the door . . . Tahnee and I stood there, too numbed to speak. Our friend Kobbi was gone, and in that moment when my eyes met the crazed wildness in Kobrah’s, I knew that even if we got her away from Chayne and the village, we had lost her forever. But we would still try to save her.

“I was going to burn down the house,” Kobrah said, as if that were the most ordinary thing to say. “But it can wait until later. Maybe I should wait until Chayne is home and sound asleep. Yes. That would be better.”

She stepped aside to let us in. We slipped into the house and closed the door before daring to say anything.

“We’re leaving,” I said hurriedly. “We’re running away to Vision. You can come with us.”

She’ll destroy us, I thought as I waited for her answer. Chayne has burned out the goodness in her, and if she comes with us, she’ll destroy us.

But I didn’t take back the offer. I just waited for her answer.

“Yes,” she finally said, softly. “Yes.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

Leaving our bags by the door, we hurried after her. “We didn’t dare take any food from home . . .” I began.

“I have food,” Kobrah replied. She pulled out her market basket. “I boiled eggs this afternoon, after I got back from the Elders’ Hall. Chayne doesn’t like hard-boiled eggs. Maybe that’s why I made them.”

Her voice sounded dreamy—and insane. But she moved swiftly, storing the eggs, wrapping up the cheeses, taking all the fresh fruit.

Then Tahnee, in an effort to help, reached for a loaf of bread still cooling on the counter.

“No!” Kobrah snarled. “That is for Chayne.”

Tahnee stepped away from the counter, white with fear. She looked at me, her thoughts clear on her face: Do we dare eat anything that comes from this house?

Kobrah smiled bitterly. “The rest of the food is safe.” She went into the bedroom, and we listened to her opening drawers and slamming them shut, followed by a cry of triumph and the rattle of coins in a tin box.

Kobrah was packed in no time, and even after we told her about having a cart, she refused to add anything to the small travel pack she used to carry when we spent the night at each other’s houses. After the second time we urged her to bring more clothes or at least a few sentimental trinkets, she said, “I want no reminders of this place.”

The hours crawled by until, finally, we had reached that in-between hour when all the family men were dutifully tucked in with their wives and children and the younger men were still at the drinking parlor or carousing elsewhere with friends.

We crept out of Kobrah’s house, lugging our traveling bags and other supplies, always watchful, always fearful of discovery. But something watched over us that night, because whenever we passed a house with a dog, the wind shifted to favor us and the dog, never catching our scent, remained quiet.

So we made it to the tree where we used to play and where, in many ways, this journey had begun seven years before on the day we had seen The Voice’s scars. Kobrah and Tahnee remained there with the bags while I went on to the Elders’ Hall, now carrying nothing more than the old pan, a water skin, and the small bag of feed. If caught, I could truthfully say I had felt sorry for the horse and had snuck out to give it some food and water.

But there were no lights shining in the hall except for a lamp in the caretaker’s room, and that provided me with just enough light to make my way to where the horse watched me.

“Easy, boy,” I whispered when he began making noises. He was hungry and thirsty, and I was holding what he wanted. He would be making a lot of noise soon if he didn’t get some.

Staying just out of reach and keeping one eye on the lighted window, just in case the caretaker looked out to see why the horse was fussing, I poured water into the pan, then held it out for the horse. He drank it down and looked for more, but I scooped out a double handful of feed and gave that to him next. Another pan of water and another handful of feed. Not much for a big horse, but all I could do for now. I put the water skin and bag of feed in the back of the cart, but I held on to the pan, afraid it would rattle and draw attention.

“Come on, boy,” I whispered as I untied the horse from the hitching rail. “Come on. You’re going to help all of us get to freedom.”

He came with me without noise or fuss, and when we were far enough away from the hall that the clip-clop of hooves and rattle of the cart wheels wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention, I began taking full breaths again.

We paused at the tree just long enough to haul the traveling bags and supplies into the cart and have Kobrah and Tahnee hide in the back. One person leading a horse and cart might go unremarked. All three of us out at this time of night with this particular horse and cart . . . Our luck held. We got to the back of The Voice’s house and got the cart positioned so the blank stone marker could be used as a step. Now the rest of the plan was up to me, and if I failed one of us, I failed all of us.

It didn’t occur to me until much later that Kobrah and Tahnee never once suggested abandoning this part of the plan. I suppose that, more than anything, proved none of us belonged in the village where we had been born.

The plan was simple. I would go in on the pretense of consoling Chayne on the loss of the dowry and the embarrassment of Kobrah’s behavior. I would slip a third of the drug I had bought into a drink, avoid any amorous advances Chayne might think to make before he drank down the drug, and then get The Voice out of the house and into the cart so we could be far down the road before anyone realized we were gone.

I just didn’t know how to do any of that. So I prayed hard and with all my heart, because five lives were at stake now. The horse had become a conspirator with us, and even though he was a poor, dumb beast, I was sure the Elder would blame him for following the girl who had offered him food.

Tahnee held the horse, petting him to keep him quiet. Kobrah remained in the cart. I went around to the front and rang the visitors’ bell, still wondering what to say to get myself inside at this hour.

That wasn’t a worry. Chayne answered the door looking sleepy, rumpled, and surly, and I suspected he had been drinking, even though he wasn’t supposed to when he was on duty. Then another expression slithered into his eyes as he looked at me, and I felt a thread of pure fear roll down my spine when I realized I wasn’t the only one who had a drug that had been purchased in some shadow place. Chayne had his bottle with him, because he used it on The Voice as well as on Kobrah.

And he intended to use it on me. I looked into his eyes and knew it.

“I heard what happened this afternoon,” I said, sounding a little breathless. “I thought . . . maybe . . . you would want to talk to someone.”

“Talk?” he laughed softly, and I heard the sound of a heart turning evil. He stepped aside to let me enter. “Sure, we can talk. Come back to the kitchen. I was having a bite to eat.”

There was bread and cheese on the table, as well as half a bottle of wine. Looking at Chayne’s flushed face, I had a feeling that wasn’t the first bottle he’d opened tonight. Which explained why he hadn’t paid attention to the sound of a horse and cart.

“Let me get you some wine,” he said, picking up the bottle and taking it with him to the cupboard that held the glasses.

Watching him to make sure he wasn’t paying close attention to me, I slipped a hand in my skirt pocket and took out the vial of potion. I worked the cork with my thumb, loosening it while I glanced at Chayne’s glass of wine and then back at him. He would see me if I reached across the table, and if he saw my hand over his glass . . . Then he turned toward the kitchen window, and I thought my heart would stop. Had he heard a noise? I was almost certain he wouldn’t see the horse and cart unless he went right up to the window and looked out, but I couldn’t take that chance. And I couldn’t waste the opportunity he provided by turning his back on me. So I pulled the cork off the vial and dumped some of the drug into Chayne’s glass, heedless of how much I was using.

“Is there anyone else here tonight?” I asked, tucking my shaking hands in my lap while I worked the cork back into the top of the vial.

He stopped moving toward the window, but he still kept his back to me.

He hadn’t heard a noise. He wasn’t interested in looking out the window. That was just the excuse he had used for turning away from me while he slipped his drug into my glass of wine.

He came back to the table, set the wineglass in front of me, and smiled the kind of smile women instinctively fear. “No, there’s no one else here tonight. Except The Voice. She’s the perfect chaperone.”

I would have been a fool to come here alone. I hadn’t been a friend to Kobrah when I had kept silent after overhearing Chayne tell Dariden about the drug. Now all our fates came down to whether I could avoid drinking from my glass without arousing Chayne’s suspicion.

“Drink up,” Chayne said, raising his glass in a salute as he watched me.

He knew I knew about the drug—and he didn’t care. He was between me and the door. We were alone. He wasn’t so drunk that I could get away from him.

Then a door slammed, making us both jump. A moment later, Kobrah stood in the kitchen doorway, breathing like a bellows, looking as if she’d run here all the way from her house.

“Are you going to poison Nalah too?” Kobrah asked. “Isn’t it enough that you ruined me?”

“Go home,” Chayne said coldly, turning his back on her to look straight at me. “Go back home while you still have one. And if you say anything else that causes trouble, I’ll be looking for a new wife, and you’ll be grateful for any place that will take you in. You know what they say about an orphan’s life.”

He didn’t see the rage on her face, but he smirked when I, trembling, whispered, “An orphan’s life is one of sorrow.”

Looking pleased, Chayne said, “That’s right,” and drank all the wine in his glass.

The Apothecary assured me the drug would work fast. Even so, agonizing hours filled the space between each heartbeat before Chayne staggered, grabbed at the table to keep his balance, then collapsed on the floor.

I caught Chayne’s wineglass before it rolled off the table, righted the bottle before the rest of the wine spilled out, then got around the table in time to stand between Chayne and Kobrah.

“I was going to kick his face until it was all smashed and broken,” Kobrah said in that dreamy, insane voice. “He deserves to have his face smashed. You don’t know all the things he’s done.”

I held up a hand to stop her, then crouched beside Chayne. His eyes were open, but his mind was swimming in some dream world and his limbs wouldn’t work for a few hours.

“You,” he said, drawing out the word.

Inspired, I stared at him. “Us,” I said, raising a hand to draw his attention to Kobrah, who was standing behind me. “We are the goddesses of justice and vengeance. Tonight we wore the faces of women you know in order to test you, human. And you failed.”

Kobrah laughed, a chilling sound.

“When the sun rises tomorrow, you will stand in front of the Elders’ Hall and tell everyone about the drug you gave your wife. You will confess every harm you have ever done to any living thing. If you do not, we will come back every night for the rest of your life. We will come back in a dream, night after night, and peel the skin off your face so that everyone will see who you really are.”

I stood up and walked out of the kitchen. Kobrah followed me.

“If he doesn’t confess all the things he’s done, will he really have that dream?” she asked.

“Yes.” When I bought the drug, I had emphasized the need to hide the memory of my presence and had been assured that, in the first minute or two after the drug was taken, the person would believe anything he was told.

Kobrah smiled. “That’s better than kicking him in the face, because he’ll never tell the Elders everything he’s done. He would end up among the Un-Named.”

We opened doors, searched rooms. Most people never went beyond the visitors’ room, never saw this part of the house. Judging by what could be seen by moonlight, the rooms set aside for the caretakers were better furnished and had more luxuries than any of them knew in their own homes. But there were two rooms that had the basic furniture of bed, chair, and dresser. No rug on the floor. No sketches on the walls. Not one pretty bauble to delight the heart.

There was no need for such things when a person had been silenced and could not voice her pain, when she had been kept uneducated so she could not give shape to her thoughts. When she was caged within her own flesh so that she couldn’t escape other kinds of cages.

The first of those sparse rooms was empty, and Kobrah stared at it for a long time, shuddering, as we both realized that room had been readied for a new occupant.

In the second sparsely furnished room, we found The Voice.

“It’s me,” I said, hurrying to the side of the bed. “It’s Nalah.”

The wheezing, labored breathing eased a little, and the reason squeezed my heart until it hurt.

Hearing someone at the door, she had expected Chayne to come in and do things to her after he’d given her the drug.

But seeing her in the bed, I realized how big she was—and I also realized the flaw in my plan.

I didn’t know if she was capable of walking far enough to reach the cart. And if she wasn’t able to climb in by herself, even the three of us weren’t strong enough to lift her.

“We’re running away,” I said. “You can come with us. I know a place that can help you. You’ll be safe there.” I swallowed hard to say what had to be said. “We have a cart behind the house. You can ride in the back of it. But if you want to get away from here, you have to walk to the cart, you have to climb in the back. If you can’t do that . . .”

She struggled, flailed. I grabbed a wrist and pulled to help her sit up. When that wasn’t quite enough, Kobrah wrapped her arms around my waist and leaned back, adding her strength to the effort.

We got The Voice on her feet. Got her walking. By the time we left the bedroom, she was wheezing. By the time we got to the back door, her lungs sounded like damaged bellows, and I wondered if she would collapse before she reached the cart. She couldn’t open her mouth, so she sucked in air through her teeth.

How much time had passed? How much did we have left before someone noticed the horse was gone? Since we hadn’t come home by now, and knowing Chayne would be working tonight, Tahnee’s mother and mine would assume we had stayed with Kobrah and wouldn’t be expecting to see us until after breakfast. The second stage of the potion I bought was supposed to produce lethargy, so hopefully Chayne would fall asleep and not wake up until the daytime caretakers arrived.

Desperate, determined, The Voice took one step after another. I stayed beside her, having no idea what I would do if she fell, while Tahnee held the horse and Kobrah ran back into the house. She returned with a bundle, which she tossed into the back of the cart.

“Clothes,” she said.

Up to the blank marker stone that provided The Voice with the step needed to get into the cart. She grasped the sides of the cart and pulled. Kobrah and I pushed. Tahnee held the horse steady.

Then The Voice was in the cart, on hands and knees, panting from the effort.

“Lie down,” I told her, while Kobrah ran back into the house a last time to fetch a blanket to cover The Voice until we were out of the village.

I took my place at the horse’s head and sent up one more prayer to whoever would listen to me. Please, let the cart be strong enough to hold her. Let the horse be strong enough to pull the load. Please.

The horse leaned into the harness, straining to take that first step. But he did take that first step. And the next one. The cart moved. The axles didn’t break.

“Good boy,” I whispered. “You’re a brave, strong boy. Step along. That’s it. Good boy.”

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. That was the only sound besides the rattle of the cart’s wheels. No other sounds disturbed our village’s silence.

Two days’ journey to Vision in a coach with a team of horses that could maintain a trot for miles at a time. How many days with a half-starved horse who could do no better than a steady walk?

We had gotten out of the village, had left the last house behind us, and I was just starting to breathe easy when we heard clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop coming toward us.

I kept walking, kept up my whispered encouragement to the horse. Kobrah darted to the far side of the cart and hunched over to avoid being seen, while Tahnee remained near the back of the cart.

The man rode toward us, leading another horse. He seemed vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until Tahnee let out a stifled cry of joy that I recognized him as the young man at the bazaar whom Tahnee had haggled with and flirted with.

And fallen in love with?

I doubt he knew who I was—or cared. He dismounted, shoved reins into my open hand, and leaped at Tahnee, snatching her off her feet as he held her tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. You must have thought I failed you, that I wasn’t coming. The world . . . There were delays. I . . .”

Kobrah came around the side of the cart, her eyes on the horses.

“Do you need both horses?” she asked, and there was something in her voice, something in the way she moved that made us all tense.

“I . . .” He looked back at his horses, then looked at Kobrah—and then tried to shift Tahnee behind him without being too obvious about what he was doing . . . or why.

We’ve lost her, I thought. If we don’t let her go, she’ll destroy us.

I think Tahnee realized that too, because she looked at her lover and asked, “Could we ride double?”

We didn’t know what we were asking of him, didn’t know what the loss of a horse would mean to him or his family. But he knew, and he still went back to his horses, untied the second one, and walked it over to where Kobrah waited. Handing her the reins, he said, “Take the horse.”

After she mounted, she looked down at him and said, “May the gods and goddesses of fate and fortune shower your life with golden days.”

Then she rode back to the village. I didn’t know what she intended to do, but I knew the rest of us needed to get as far away as we could.

“You two go on ahead,” I said. “Tahnee’s travel bag is too big to carry on horseback. If I bring it to your family’s booth at the bazaar, will it get to her?”

“It will.” He looked in the direction of the village. “But that will leave you—”

“We got this far by working together,” I said, cutting him off. “Now we have to separate.” Thinking about the sign before the bridge leading to Vision, I looked at Tahnee. “Now we have to let our hearts choose our destination.”

Tahnee hugged me. Her lover studied my face, as if memorizing it, then said, “Travel lightly.”

He mounted his horse and pulled Tahnee up behind him, and the two of them cantered down the road, heading for Vision . . . and freedom.

I stood there, feeling so alone. More so because I wasn’t alone. But I couldn’t look at her just then, couldn’t offer any promises or comfort. I would save us—or I would fail.

“Come on, boy,” I said softly. “Come on. We’ve got a ways to go.”

The horse leaned into the harness, straining to take that first step.

One step. Another. And step by plodding step, we got a little closer to a dream.