“You’re gonna tell me.”
“I’m not, Emer—I mean, Emmy.” He looked completely serious. He really wasn’t going to tell her. She picked up on this.
“Why not?” she quizzed.
“Because I don’t think you’d believe me. That and…. it’s just not a memory I’d like to bring up.” This sentence struck something in Emmy’s mind. She stared at him and blinked, her eyes wide again.
“No,” she whispered, “you… you weren’t a slave, were you?”
“Uhm… yeah. I was. I’m a runaway,” he responded. Emmy looked at the door of the small cabin. She looked back at him.
“Is… is that why you were in such a hurry to get inside whenever you showed up on my doorstep?”
“Yes…” he said quietly. “And I really shouldn’t have spent more than a week here. Soon enough, they’re gonna find me. And they’re gonna shoot me on the spot, and you’re gonna be taken to a trial, getting anywhere from 24 months imprisonment to death for harboring a runaway slave, depending on the judge and his mood.”