Page 37 of Backwoods
Using both hands, she gripped the edge of the dresser and nudged it away from the wall. It was heavier than it looked, and she couldn’t manage to move it more than a few inches, the furniture legs screeching against the hardwood floor as she pushed. Breathing hard, she peered into the shadowed gap between the dresser and wall. She saw only dusty spiderwebs.
Next, she examined the chair, pulled it away from its position, and found nothing. She climbed onto the chair and pried at the slats of wood that had been nailed across the window, but they held firm.
She was too tired to bother trying the other window. Sighing, she eased onto the ruptured cushion to catch her breath. She hung her head, gazing at the shackles on her wrists and ankles.
As much as she hated it, she was inclined to accept that there was no way out of this room, no way out of her restraints, and nothing to do except wait for an opportunity to escape.
Up there in the big house, you gon’ be under Miss Lula’s charge . . . Miss Lula ain’t got as much patience as me . . .
Amiya clenched her hands into fists.
I will resist, she thought.Until my dying breath.
But until then, she did something she hadn’t done in years: she prayed.
23
The hammer Nick had discovered buried in the pile of hay wasn’t mantled with rust, as he had initially thought.
In the deepening afternoon light, he saw that it was covered in blood. The dried blood fluttered away in brittle flakes as he ran his thumb across the surface.
He tried to piece together what might have happened.
Had someone used the hammer as a weapon? Against whom? The Overseer? Or perhaps one of the “helpers” had used it to punish one of their captives.
Clutching the wooden handle in both hands, he surveyed the barn walls, trying to remember where he had found those loose boards. He lurched toward the wall, chains rattling.
He located the most promising section in a far corner near the back wall. There, several boards had warped and revealed a slice of daylight a couple of inches wide. He inserted the claw side of the hammer head, adjusted to get some leverage, and pushed.
Wood groaned and creaked, and the gap widened.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. He slipped the claw into another loose section and pushed again, his arms trembling from the effort, his chains clinking.
A rusted nail popped out, rolled into the dirt. The gap was about six inches wide, large enough to admit his foot. He bent close to the opening he’d created and peered outside.
He saw tall, thick weeds, and the sweet fragrance of wildflowers swirled around his head.
Encouraged, he pried loose another slat of decaying wood, tossed it aside. Then he peeled back another one and knocked it away. After he had loosened yet another piece, he estimated that he had enough space to squeeze through. He lowered himself into a crawl.
Behind him, the barn door rattled.
Nick froze, his heart pounding. Half-heartedly, he thought he could try to fit through the gap he had made, but he knew intuitively that he would never make it. One of the helpers would see him trying to wriggle through, grab his ankles, and reel him back in.
The door swung open, and in that rush of sudden brightness, Nick saw a slight, familiar figure slip inside and shut the door.
“Hey, Mr. Nick,” a soft voice said, in a whisper.
It was the girl that he and Amiya had encountered earlier in the woods. The runaway.
Clutching the hammer, unsure of her intentions, Nick rose. “Over here.”
The girl hurried toward him, her footsteps feather-light across the straw.
“What’re you doing in here?” he asked.
Anxiety glimmered in her eyes, but she met his gaze without looking away, and he realized in that moment that she was older than she looked.
“I’m helping you escape.” She took a small silver item from her dress pocket that looked like a key. “We’ve gotta hurry. I think one of the field hands saw me come in here, and they can’t be trusted. They’ll snitch to a helper in a New York minute.”
