Spring rain came to Alcolu that night, washing the dust from the pine needles, turning the dirt paths into soft, muddy trails. But inside the Raya house, the air felt no lighter — the damp only pressed the worry deeper into the walls.
Anna sat at the kitchen table by the oil lamp, her fingers tracing the edge of the last envelope she'd sent north. She'd done the wash, cleaned the floor twice, checked on Amie more times than the girl could count — but her eyes kept drifting to the road, the way they had every evening since she'd slipped that final letter into the postman's hand.
Caleb came in from the yard, boots caked in red mud. He carried a single letter pinched between his fingers like it might break if he squeezed too hard. He didn't speak — just set it on the table in front of her.
Anna's breath caught when she saw the stamp. New York City. Thick paper, the address typed instead of written by a neighbor's shaky hand.
She turned it over twice before she could force her fingers to tear it open. The words inside blurred for a moment behind the wet in her eyes — then she blinked them clear, reading every line twice to make sure the truth stayed real.
---
Mrs. Raya,
I have received your letter concerning your son, Ikrist Raya. I am deeply troubled by what you describe.
The NAACP Legal Defense team is looking into the matter. We cannot promise more than a visit yet, but I will send a representative as soon as possible to speak with you and your husband.
Stay strong. Truth is a slow-moving river, but sometimes it can wash away the lies if enough good hands dig at the banks.
Yours in struggle,
T. Marshall
---
Anna pressed the page to her chest, the paper softening under the heat of her palm. Her shoulders shook, but this time the tears were something different — not the dry ache that had cracked her throat every night since they took her boy, but a small, wild thing beating its wings inside her chest.
Caleb sat down across from her, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on her face. "What's it say?"
Anna lifted her head, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "He's sending someone. From New York. Said they're gonna come look at Krist's case."
Caleb exhaled slow, like a man letting go of a breath he'd been holding too long. He reached across the table, took her hand in his. His fingers were rough, but the way they wrapped around hers made her feel steady — like they were more than just two people fighting shadows in the dark.
"He ain't alone now," Caleb said. "We ain't alone."
---
At the jailhouse, the news hadn't reached the sheriff's desk yet. Sheriff Hammond sat by the window, his boots propped up, thumbing through the same old yellowed paper for the third time. He liked how the words made him look busy, though he didn't care much for reading.
Deputy Croft leaned against the far wall, arms folded. He watched the clock tick past midnight, his eyes drifting down the hallway where Ikrist lay curled on the narrow cot, face turned to the wall where his scratched flowers bloomed like stubborn weeds.
Croft wondered if that boy was dreaming — and if he was, whether he dreamed of walking home, or if the jail walls had crept into his sleep like they'd crept into every waking moment.
---
The next morning, Anna stood at the post with Amie on her hip, watching the muddy lane for the shape of a stranger in a suit who might step down from the Charleston bus with the first honest hope they'd seen since Sheriff Hammond's car took Ikrist away.
She didn't know what he'd look like, this lawyer from far away — didn't know if he'd be young or old, Black or white. But she held tight to the letter in her apron pocket like it was a shield big enough to stand between her boy and the rope some men whispered about when they thought no one could hear.
She turned her face to the breeze that carried the smell of wet pine and distant train smoke. She let the wind dry the last of her tears.
"Hold on, Krist," she whispered to the air, to the sky, to the soft earth under her bare feet. "Mama's comin'. And now we got help comin' too."