1944. In the humid cradle of South Carolina's pine forests lay a tiny mill town named Alcolu — a place split clean down the middle by invisible lines no map showed. On one side stood the white families: neat rows of mill houses with painted fences and picket porches, children riding bicycles along dusty roads lined with sycamore trees. On the other side, beyond the railway tracks and the sawmill's constant groan, stood the small shacks where the Black families lived — homes patched with tin roofs and rough planks, yards full of chickens and laughter and heavy work that never seemed to end.
Inside one of these shacks lived the Raya family. On a warm March morning, the faint light of dawn slipped through cracks in the wood and landed on Ikrist Raya's face. He stirred awake to the smell of cornbread his mother fried on the wood stove, and the low voice of his father dressing for his shift at the mill. Ikrist was fourteen — though small and slight, his dark eyes held a softness that made him seem even younger.
"Boy, get up and feed the chickens before you run off daydreaming," his father's deep voice rumbled from the door.
"Yes, sir," Ikrist mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
He pulled on his worn boots, stepping over his little brother Jonas who was still curled up beneath an old quilt. His sister Amie, only eight, was already awake, braiding her doll's hair with strips of torn cloth.
Outside, the world was waking. The pine woods behind their house smelled sweet and damp. Ikrist scattered feed for the chickens, chuckling when one jumped up to peck at his fingers. He'd always liked quiet tasks like this — caring for small things, picking flowers for his sister, sketching pictures on scraps of brown paper from the mill's cast-offs.
He slipped into the woods for a moment, just to listen. The morning birdsong was a soft hum above the hiss of wind in the pine needles. He bent down and plucked a tiny white flower — a maypop vine just starting to bloom — and tucked it behind his ear before heading back in. He'd give it to Amie later. She loved flowers more than dolls, anyway.
Inside, his mother, Anna Raya, pressed a biscuit into his hand. She was a small woman, but her eyes could silence even Ikrist's father when they flashed with worry.
"Stay close today, Ikrist. White folks been whispering since that boy went missing last year. Don't you go wandering far."
"Yes, ma'am." He knew what she meant, even if she didn't say it plain. Around Alcolu, a Black child's life could change with a word — a glance — a rumor.
His father stepped back inside, pulling on his hat, his face shadowed in the dim kitchen.
"Help your mama. Mind your brother and sister."
"I will, Daddy."
After his father left, the house felt lighter. Ikrist wolfed down his biscuit, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and ran out back to find Amie. She sat on an overturned crate, humming, her doll now wearing a crown of grass.
"Got you something," Ikrist said, pulling the maypop flower from behind his ear. He stuck it in her braids and she squealed with delight.
"Pretty!" she said, hugging him tight. He grinned, ruffling her hair.
That afternoon, when chores were done, Ikrist lay on his stomach under the shade of an old oak near the tracks, scratching out a drawing of a chicken on a scrap of paper. He liked to imagine things — that maybe one day he'd go up north, where he'd heard colored folks could sit in any seat on the bus and work in offices with bright lights. Maybe he'd be an inventor — he liked to tinker with broken radios, wires, and old glass tubes his father brought home from the mill dump.
"Krist!" Amie called, breaking his daydream. "There's some girls comin'."
He looked up. Two white girls were pushing bikes down the dusty path. They were regulars — he'd seen them before, their laughter floating over from the 'other side.' They were older than Amie but younger than him — one with braids swinging behind her hat, the other with grass stains on her dress.
"Hey there!" the older girl called out brightly, her face pink from the sun. "Y'all seen any maypops growin' 'round here? We're huntin' 'em."
Ikrist glanced at Amie. He didn't think much of it — kids were kids, even if grown folks didn't want them mixing. He pointed down past the tracks.
"Down yonder by the big ditch," he said. "They grow all along the fence."
The girls thanked him and giggled off, pushing their bikes toward the ditch. Ikrist watched them go, squinting as the afternoon sun dipped behind the trees.
"Come on, Amie," he said, suddenly uneasy though he didn't know why. "Mama'll want us back."
As they walked home, the sound of the mill whistle blowing signaled supper time for the whole town. On one side of the tracks, white workers headed home to porches and radio songs drifting out windows. On the other side, Black families gathered close — closer than ever when the world felt like it could swallow their children whole.
In his pocket, Ikrist still carried the stub of pencil he used for drawing. He didn't know that tomorrow, that same pocket would be turned inside out in a jail cell. He didn't know his name would be shouted in courtrooms and whispered in history books long after he was gone.
For now, he was just a boy with a flower in his sister's hair, a half-finished drawing, and a heart too young to carry the weight of the world.