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to buy him a new pair of shoes. His old ones had finally fallen apart, the soles separating from the uppers, the toes worn through to reveal his socks. Sarah had saved up a little money, and she was determined to get him something decent. The general store was a narrow, dusty building on the main street, its wooden floorboards creaking underfoot, its shelves crammed with everything from canned goods to hardware to bolts of fabric. It was owned by a black man named Mr. Jefferson, the same man who had turned Will away months earlier. Will felt a knot of anxiety form in his stomach as they approached the store. He remembered Mr. Jefferson's cold eyes, his harsh words, the way he had made Will feel like less than nothing. He didn't want to go back there, didn't want to face that cruelty again. But Sarah was insistent. "Mr. Jefferson is the only one in town who sells shoes," she said. "We don't have a choice. Just stay close to me, and don't let anything he says get to you." Will nodded, though he wasn't convinced. He had learned that words could hurt just as much as fists, and Mr. Jefferson had a way of using words like weapons. The store was quiet when they entered, the only sound the creaking of the ceiling fan and the buzzing of a fly trapped against the window. Mr. Jefferson was behind the counter, his face a mask of cold indifference. He looked up when they entered, his eyes scanning the group — Sarah, Elijah, Ruth, and finally, Will. "What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice flat and unfriendly. "We need to buy some shoes for our son," Sarah said, gesturing to Will. "His old ones are worn out." Mr. Jefferson's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And what makes you think I have shoes for a white boy? This is a colored store. For colored people." Will felt his face flush with embarrassment. He looked down at his feet, his ragged shoes a stark reminder of his poverty. "Mr. Jefferson," Sarah said, her voice calm but firm. "We are here to spend money. And we are asking you to sell us a pair of shoes. There's nothing more to it than that." Mr. Jefferson's eyes narrowed. "You can't just come in here with a white boy and pretend he's one of your own. It's not right. It's not natural. You people need to know your place." Ruth stepped forward, her face flushed with anger. "He's our brother," she said fiercely. "And you have no right to talk about him that way." Mr. Jefferson laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Your brother? That's a good one. That boy is as white as I am black. He's not your brother. He's not one of you. And he never will be." Will felt the words like a physical blow. He wanted to run, to hide, to disappear from this place and never come back. But Ruth grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Don't listen to him," she whispered. "He's just an old man with a rotten heart." Mr. Jefferson, apparently satisfied with his cruelty, turned away and busied himself with something behind the counter. Sarah placed a hand on Will's shoulder and guided him out of the store. "Don't let him get to you, son," she said quietly. "He doesn't know what he's talking about." But the damage was done. The words echoed in Will's mind, a constant reminder that he would never truly belong. He