She would remember that moment of calm for the rest of her days, more clearly than hiding in the tall grass, or the men’s voices, or her grandfather’s command—Gramma Amy’s ladle arrested in midair over the stew pot, Ma’am setting wood plates on the long, communal pine table for supper, Granny Sarah’s white fluff of hair as she slept, chin to chest, in a chair by the fire, Aunt Maggie breast-feeding the smallest of the household’s babies in one corner, her younger sister, Elizabeth, playing quietly with a corncob doll wrapped in strips of leather in the opposite corner, Cousin Emmaline and Cousin Lulu ferrying warm bread to the table. All eyes riveted to Rose. The comforting odor of stew meat bubbling in the pot over the fire consumed the kitchen and reminded her how hungry she was.“Grampa says run,” she said, her breath coming hard.She repeated her story of the men in the woods, fast as she could.Amy sprang to action first, organizing their escape, the long ladle clattering against the side of the pot where she dropped it, snapping her orders.“Gather the children.”There was no debate.
