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re going to find a home." The bus had rumbled on, carrying them toward an uncertain future. Ruth had held William close, her eyes fixed on the window, watching the landscape change. The familiar scenery of Alabama had given way to the rolling hills of Mississippi, the pine forests giving way to cotton fields, the small towns giving way to smaller towns. She had no idea what she would find in Willow Creek, no idea if the woman s advice was trustworthy, no idea if there was any hope left. But she had to believe. She had to hope. She had to keep moving forward. It was the only thing she knew how to do. CHAPTER EIGHT: THE HUNGER The hunger was a constant companion, a low, gnawing ache that never quite went away. Ruth had learned to ignore it, to push it down, to pretend that she wasn t hungry when her stomach was growling and her head was spinning. She had learned to survive on coffee and cigarettes, to stretch a single meal across an entire day, to make a little food go a long way. But William was young, too young to understand, too young to ignore the pangs of hunger that plagued him. And Ruth had made sure that he never went to bed with an empty stomach. She had gone without food so that he could eat. She had given him the last of the bread, the last of the milk, the last of everything. She had watched him eat, her heart aching with love and guilt, and she had told herself that it was worth it. Because it was. It was worth every moment of hunger, every night of sleeplessness, every day of exhaustion. He was her son, her reason for living, her only source of hope. And she would do anything, absolutely anything, to protect him. The diner was a small, rundown place on the edge of town, the kind of place where the coffee was weak and the food was greasy and the only customers were truck drivers and drifters. Ruth had been working there for three weeks, washing dishes and waiting tables, earning just enough to pay for the motel room and the groceries. The owner, a gruff, tired man named Frank, had been kind to her. He had given her the job without asking questions, had paid her in cash, had turned a blind eye to her absences and her lies. He had known that she was running, that she was hiding, and he had never pushed her for the truth. "Ruth," he had said one evening, his voice low and serious. "I need to talk to you." She had felt a chill run down her spine. "What is it, Frank?" "There s a man asking questions," he had said. "He s been asking about you, about a woman with a child. He doesn t look like a cop, but he looks dangerous. I think you should leave." Ruth had felt her blood run cold. The men in black cars had found her. They were closing in, and there was nowhere left to run. "Thank you, Frank," she had said, her voice trembling. "Thank you for everything." She had packed her bags that very night, taken William from his bed, and fled into the darkness. She had no idea who the man was, no idea why he was looking for her, but she had known that she had to run. They had walked for hours, until her legs were burning and her feet were bleeding, until they had reached the