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for more than a few weeks, always looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had worked odd jobs, taken whatever she could find, done whatever was necessary to survive. She had been a waitress, a maid, a factory worker, a seamstress. She had done things she was not proud of, taken risks she would never have taken if she had had any other choice. And all the while, she had been haunted by the fear that they would find her, that they would take her son, that everything she had sacrificed would be for nothing. It was in a small diner in a town she didn t remember that she had met the stranger. He was an old man, his face lined with years of hard living, his eyes sharp and knowing. He had sat down across from her, uninvited, and looked at her with an intensity that had made her blood run cold. "You re the one they re looking for," he had said, his voice low and gravelly. "The one with the boy." She had tried to deny it, to brush him off, to pretend she didn t know what he was talking about. But he had just shaken his head, a sad smile on his lips. "I m not here to hurt you," he had said. "I m here to warn you. They re getting closer. They know you re heading south. You need to find a place to hide, a place where no one will find you." He had told her about Willow Creek, a small town in Mississippi where people minded their own business and strangers were welcome. He had told her that the town was mostly black, that she would be an outsider, but that she would be safe. He had told her that there was a church there, a good church, run by a good man who would help her. She had listened to him, her heart pounding with fear and hope. She had wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that there was a place where she could finally stop running, where she and her son could find peace. "Thank you," she had whispered. "Thank you for telling me." He had nodded, his eyes filled with a strange, sad understanding. "You re a good mother," he had said. "You re doing the right thing. Don t ever doubt that." He had stood up and walked away, disappearing into the night, and she had never seen him again. The journey to Willow Creek had been long and hard. Ruth had spent her last few dollars on a bus ticket, cramming herself and William into the back of the Greyhound, holding him close as they rattled through the night. She had not slept, not really, too consumed by fear and exhaustion to find rest. William had been a trooper, as he always was. He had not complained, not once, even though she knew he was tired and hungry and scared. He had just curled up against her, his small body warm against hers, his trust in her absolute. She had looked down at him, at his pale hair and his winter blue eyes, at the face that was so much like his father s. She had felt a surge of love so powerful it had almost broken her, a love that was fierce and protective and all consuming. This boy was her whole world, her reason for living, her only source of hope in a world that had given her nothing but pain. "Don t worry, baby," she