By dawn two days after the Charleston Gazette headline, copies of the story had drifted all the way to Columbia. They landed on the desk of an aide to the governor — a man who liked his shoes polished, his tie knotted perfect, and his phone lines clear of trouble from backwoods counties like Clarendon.
But trouble doesn't care about neat ties.
When the aide read Croft's sworn words — false confession, no lawyer, a sick child waiting on a rope — he carried the paper straight into the governor's morning briefing, dropping it on the big polished table with a whisper sharp enough to slice through the stale coffee steam.
---
Back in Alcolu, the sheriff's office felt smaller than ever. Hammond slammed the door so hard Croft flinched behind the front desk.
"Got the governor's man sniffin' around now," Hammond growled. "Got phone calls from Charleston, Columbia, even damn New York — papers askin' me questions like I owe 'em answers."
Croft didn't reply. He watched the sheriff pace, watched his shoulders bunch up like a hound about to bite.
"They're comin' for the boy," Hammond hissed. "They take him outta here, they gut my badge with him. You know that, don't you, Croft?"
Croft met his eyes. "Might be that badge needs gutting, Sheriff."
For a second the room froze. Then Hammond lunged so fast the old desk rattled — his fist buried in Croft's shirtfront, breath hot with whiskey and rage.
"You watch your tongue," Hammond spat. "Else you'll share that boy's bed in the dirt."
He let Croft go so sudden the deputy nearly stumbled. Hammond turned, snatched his hat from the rack, and stalked out the door — boots striking the floor like hammer blows.
---
Outside, the streets of Alcolu buzzed in a way they hadn't in years. Mothers gathered at fences, whispering about the governor's man. Fathers lingered on porches after supper, eyes sliding sideways when patrol cars rumbled past.
At the mill, Caleb's stand grew into something more — men dropping tools at breaks, passing the paper hand to hand, spitting the sheriff's name like it tasted rotten.
---
Inside the Raya house, Anna spread the second newspaper out flat across the table. Silas read it aloud for the neighbors — the headline promising an emergency review by the state.
"He'll never let 'em move Ikrist," Caleb said, voice tight as a snare. "Not without blood."
Anna pressed her hand over his. "Then he'll see there's more blood waiting to stand with him."
---
That same night, Elijah came back from Charleston on the late train. He stepped off carrying a letter in his coat pocket — stamped with the governor's seal, signed in a neat, nervous hand.
Request for Immediate Medical Transfer. Order to Present Prisoner for Examination.
He read it three times before the station lamp, heart pounding in his throat.
---
At the jailhouse, Croft found Ikrist shivering under his blanket — skin hot, breath wheezing. He tucked another threadbare blanket over him, voice low.
"Hang on, boy," Croft whispered. "They're comin' for you."
Down the hall, the sheriff's boots echoed on the planks, heavy and sure — the sound of a man who'd decided if the law wouldn't keep his rope tight, he'd find another way to knot it.
---
And deep in his fever sleep, Ikrist dreamed he was walking down a dirt road at dawn — the pines tall and the air soft — and somewhere ahead, his mama's voice called him home.