Chapter 9: Outlaws and Orphans

Ten years ago, I had just turned eight. The world was bigger then, and scarier.

That year, the governor sent out the order to wipe out my family. I remember the fear in my mom’s eyes, the way her hands shook as she packed our things. A faint Katy Perry song played on the radio, grounding the moment in the ordinary, even as everything changed.

My granddad had to scatter the western militia, so my mom took us three kids ahead to get out. We traveled by night, hiding in abandoned barns, never lighting a fire.

But on the way to Savannah, we got ambushed. The memory of gunfire and screaming horses still keeps me up at night.

The guards fought like hell to get us out. Their faces blur in my memory, but their bravery lingers.

The horse was injured and barely moving. Its breath came in short, panicked bursts, foam flecking its mouth.

Josh was curled up in my mom’s arms, bawling his eyes out. His cries blended with the chaos outside, but my mom never let go.

Lillian was pale as a ghost, whispering, "Mom, if they catch us, I’d rather die." Her voice was so quiet I almost missed it.

I clutched my pocketknife—a battered old Swiss Army, the kind every kid wanted in the 2010s—listening hard to the sounds outside. Every snap of a twig sent my heart racing.

Old Benny was driving, shouting, "Ma’am, there’s a fork ahead. You take the left on foot, I’ll drive the wagon right to throw them off." Benny’s voice was calm, even as his hands shook on the reins.

But my mom didn’t listen.

She glanced at me, then shoved me hard out of the wagon. The world spun as I tumbled, the ground rushing up to meet me.

I hit the ground, stunned.

Benny jumped out to save me. He landed hard, rolling to his feet with his knife drawn.

At that moment, my mom grabbed the reins and took off. The wagon lurched forward, dust swirling in the headlights.

The outlaws were catching up. Their shouts grew louder, closer by the second.

Benny shouted, "What are you doing, ma’am?" His voice broke, panic slicing through his usual calm.

I thought, my mom’s sharp. She knew that after tossing me out, Benny would fight to the death to protect me. She played her cards well—sacrificing the pawn to save the queen.

That way, she’d have a chance to get away.

Benny gripped his knife, eyes red: "Miss, run! Even if I die, I’ll protect you." His words were a lifeline, anchoring me to the moment.

I looked at the dust kicked up by the horses and said softly, "Benny, I’m not dying, and neither are you. We’ll both make it." My voice was stronger than I felt.

Even if we’re dragged through the mud, even if we’re stomped on, we have to survive. I clenched my fists, the old knife warm in my palm.

I remember that year, my dad held me in his arms. His embrace was gentle, even as the world collapsed around us. His blood soaked through my shirt, his body growing cold. I pressed my face into his chest, willing him to stay with me.

His last words echo in my bones—Rachel, you have to live. I promised him I would. And now, I’d do whatever it took.