reached out to smooth her hair away from her face. She jumped around, and let out a quiet squeal.
“It’s okay. It’s only me.” I said, reaching out and continuing to stroke her hair. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying,” she said in a thick voice. “It’s just my nose, all the dust. It’s allergies.”
I bit my lip and didn’t answer. I knew what I’d heard, but I didn’t want to push her if she didn’t want to confide in me. I pulled her blanket back and slipped in behind her so my voice was in her ear, barely a whisper
“I’m going to get us out of here,” I said, hugging her waist. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
I felt her nod, but a quiver moved through her body. I squeezed my arm around her waist and gave her a hug. She shook harder at my gesture, and I could tell she was crying again. My own eyes grew warm and my thoughts flooded with memories of Jackson and the way things used to be. I missed my hope, my one-time chance at a better life that now felt far, far away. I was tired of being strong, tired of being the only one fighting.
“I just want to go home,” she said in a broken whisper. “I’m tired, and I miss my mamma.”
Her body pulled inward as she tried to hide another sob, and my throat hurt as I blinked back my own tears. It had been years since I’d cried for my mamma, but I remembered how it felt to crave that comfort. Jackson had taken her place for me long ago, and now he was gone.
I cleared my throat and struggled against my emotions. I had to stay strong for us.
“Shh,” I whispered, hugging her tighter. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll get us out of here, and then we’ll find your mamma. I promise.”
Her cool hand found my forearm and squeezed. I pressed my cheek against her neck and then slipped out of the bed again. Creeping back to my own, I scanned the room. Yolanda slept in the bottom bunk nearest mine on her back, and Roxie was above her, curled in a ball on her side.
I pulled the zipper down on my coveralls and slid my arms out. As I stood in my tank top and boxers in the darkness, I took a big pinch of the skin on my upper arm. Then I ran my fingers back and forth over it for the millionth time trying to feel any sort of plastic thread or chip or foreign object of any kind under the surface.
No matter how hard I kneaded, I didn’t feel anything but my taut muscle. I sat on my cot in the dark and thought about my plan to spy, to infiltrate the enemy. Without any knowledge, it was the only choice I had. As much as the thought of it made me tremble inside, I had to start talking to Gallatin. I had to strike up some kind of friendship with him and gain his trust. And I had to start tomorrow.
Chapter 8
––––––––
G allatin wasn’t in the barn the next day. Cato was there talking to Oma and overseeing our work, and she even took a turn on one of the churns, seeming oddly proud that moving a plunger up and down for several minutes produced a ball of butter to be skimmed out.
I finished my milking and made sure my cow had enough hay. Then I carried my pail over to the other churn. I wondered what had happened to my designated partner, but I couldn’t appear too interested at this point. Yolanda did her work and we both met up where Flora waited for us at the wooden cylinder. She didn’t show any signs of remembering our late-night chat, but she did seem calmer, more at ease. I hoped my words had helped her.
We worked steadily and silently until lunch, when we all filed into the large dining hall and sat together. Flora was on my right as always, and D’Lo and Yolanda had been taking turns filling the space to my left. Today it was Yolanda. She looked down as she ate and didn’t seem to care as I sliced and passed the majority of my steak to Flora. But just as one of the watchers moved behind us in the row, she sat up and addressed me loudly.
“I’ve seen some stringy hair on white girls, but yours has got to be the