Into the Free by Julie Cantrell Page A

are stitched into the right corner: JDR. Again, this means nothing to me. Could this belong to Jack? Jack Reynolds?
    “What do you think it all means?” I ask Sloth’s ghost. He is sitting on the bank with his feet in the river. He shrugs his shoulders and disappears.
    I put everything back in the box, lock it tight, and carry it back home to Mama. It’s time for me to ask for truth.

     
    By the time I get home, Mama is already asleep in her bed. The house is quiet. I draw a warm bath and put the box under my bed for safekeeping. I look through the items again before I go to sleep. I dream of River and of secrets unlocked.
    In the morning, I wake to find Mama in the kitchen cooking buttermilk biscuits. “Welcome back,” I say, happy to see Mama in my world again. She pours a thick drop of honey in the middle of her biscuit and bites into it with extreme satisfaction, as if she’s never once felt the blessing of honey on her tongue.
    I wonder if this is a good time to mention the key and the box. The gypsies have told me their stories, and now I want a story of my own. Maybe Babushka is right. Maybe I have to know my past in order to know my future.
    I am walking to my room to get the box when someone knocks on our door. I assume it’s a customer, bringing linens for Mama to iron, but just as I poke my arm under my bed to retrieve the box, Mama yells, “Millie. Someone’s at the door for you,” and I can barely stop myself from running to see River again.
    Mama stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Mama, this is River,” I say, unable to look her in the eye when I say his name.
    He saves me and says, “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Beautiful place you’ve got up here.”
    Mama knows our house is not beautiful, with its leaking tin roof and wide cracks in the floor. It isn’t even ours.
    “I mean it,” River says. I realize he’s never had a home at all. Only a wagon and a tent. And I believe he’s really telling the truth, even when he adds poetic flavor in an attempt to impress Mama. “I’ve always wanted a place like this. The way the smoke swims right up the chimney like a school of fish, how the sheets blow across the clothesline like sails on a ship. Nothing short of magic, you ask me. You’ve even got chickens and a coop. What more could anyone wish for?”
    Mama smiles. She is warming to him.
    “The chickens were Sloth’s,” I say, not wanting to take credit. “I just feed them.”
    “Millie, it’s okay to call them yours. You’ve been taking care of those chickens your whole life,” Mama says.
    “Not really the same ones,” I say, remembering Sloth’s unique ability to tame his rooster. As a child, I thought nothing of it. Now, I realize what a gift he had. How even the rooster loved him. “Only King’s still around, barely.”
    “Impressive,” River teases. Then he notices the tall tower of books on the table. “What have you been reading now?” He runs his finger along the spines, examining the titles.
    “Those are Mama’s,” I say, volleying the attention back to my mother. She fixes a plate of biscuits and sets it on the table.
    “Help yourself,” she says to River. “How do you like your coffee?”
    “Black,” he says. I look around for Sloth, knowing he would approve of River’s coffee choice. One of a “real man.” I’m sad to see he’s nowhere to be found.
    “Guess how River got his name,” I challenge Mama.
    “You were born in the water?” Mama asks.
    “Almost,” River answers. Then he tells her his story about surviving the rapids.
    “Millie’s a survivor too,” Mama says. I want to get River out of here before Mama tells River more than I want him to know.
    “That right?” River prods.
    “Sure is,” she quips. “She was just a little baby. Only three weeks old. I put her in the crib, and for some reason, I got the feeling I had to come right back inside and check on her. A signal, I guess. From God. Like your mom with you. When I came into the