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I'm white?" "Because you're a white boy living with a black family," Elijah corrected. "That's not something people see every day. Some of them are going to be curious. Some of them are going to be... not nice." Will thought about his mother's warning, the way she had said "they" were looking for them. He thought about the sheriff, dismissive and uncaring. He thought about the white people on the bus, who had looked at his mother with contempt. "I'm used to people not being nice," he said quietly. Elijah nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess you probably are." He stood up to leave, but paused at the door. "Just so you know, Will. I'm glad you're here. This house was getting too quiet." He left before Will could respond, but his words lingered in the air, a small gift of acceptance. Will looked at the book in his hands, then at his mother's photograph, and felt a tiny glimmer of something he hadn't felt in a long time — hope. The weeks that followed were a period of adjustment for Will. He learned the rhythms of the Thomas household — the early morning prayers, the hearty breakfasts, the quiet evenings by the fire. He learned to help with chores, to set the table, to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. He learned to be part of a family, a concept that had always felt abstract and unattainable. But it wasn't always easy. There were moments when he felt like an outsider, a stranger intruding on a private world. He watched Sarah and Ruth laughing together in the kitchen, their bond so natural and unforced, and felt a pang of longing for his own mother. He watched Reverend Thomas and Elijah discussing scripture, their intellectual connection so deep and profound, and felt a twinge of jealousy. He was the newcomer, the one who didn't quite fit. And then there was the town. Willow Creek was a small community, and news traveled fast. Within days of his arrival, everyone knew about the white boy who had been taken in by the Thomases. The reaction was mixed — some people were curious, some were indifferent, and some were openly hostile. Will encountered the hostility for the first time when he went to the general store with Sarah. It was a small establishment run by a black man named Mr. Jefferson, a stern-faced man with a bushy mustache and cold, calculating eyes. He had a reputation for being fair but strict, and Sarah had always found him to be professional, if not warm. But when Will walked into the store with her, Mr. Jefferson's demeanor changed. He stared at the boy, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and his voice took on a harsh edge. "What's this, Sarah? You bringing a white boy into my store like he's one of your own?" Sarah stood her ground, her voice calm but firm. "He's my son, Mr. Jefferson. Just like Elijah and Ruth." Mr. Jefferson snorted. "Your son? That boy's as white as milk. You can't just go around claiming white children like they're stray dogs." Will felt his face flush with embarrassment and anger. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but the words wouldn't come. He just stood there, staring at the floor, while Sarah and Mr. Jefferson exchanged words. "He's a child, Mr. Jefferson," Sarah said, her voice rising slightly. "A child who needs a home. And I don't recall asking for your opinion." Mr. Jefferson muttered something under his breath and turned away, but the damage was done. Will felt the