A jailer wouldn’t feed him proper. Wouldn’t care if he was cold and heartsick. Father refused to let her visit, saying, “One Samuels inside a jail is enough.” She should’ve gone anyway, disobeyed his commandment. Now Hildy imagined Joe beaten and downtrodden, with nobody to comfort him. She fidgeted about the kitchen, restacked the dishes in the drying rack. She knew she wouldn’t sleep. First thing in the morning, she’d see Joe, take him cornbread and pie. Read scripture to calm his spirit. Hildy sat at the table, her tea beside her, trying to focus on the Bible passage she’d just read—Shadrack thrown into the fiery furnace. An angel had protected him. Hildy prayed the Lord would send an angel to guide Joe. She’d known something was wrong with Joe. He’d been out of kilter—like a child’s spinning top. She should’ve found out what was wrong. It nagged her that she’d somehow failed him. When Joe was newborn, she’d been charmed by his down-covered body, his sleepy eyes, and she’d sworn to love him better than she’d been loved.
