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Jenks’ face that his mother had taken a turn for the worse. The budding man inside his young body wanted to be strong. But the boy that was still more part of him than he let on was dying with anguish for what his own foolishness had allowed to happen.
    In the middle of the night, as he dozed in the chair at her side, his mama came suddenly awake. She found his hand, then clutched it with unusual strength. Jake came to himself. He felt his mother’s hand holding tight to his, clammy and wet. An involuntary shudder went through him.
    The fever seemed to have completely left her. Now she felt cold. Too cold. She pulled him toward her face.
    â€œYou fin’ him, Jake,” she said. Her voice was stronger than it had been in days. Strong and determined.
    â€œWho, Mama . . . find who?” he said sleepily.
    â€œYer papa, Jake. You fin’ yer father. I want him ter know dat I loved him, dat he wuz da bes’ man da Lawd cud er gib me. You tell him, Jake. You tell him I neber stopped lovin’ him, dat I wuz neber wiff anudder man in all my life but him. You tell him, Jake.”
    â€œI’ll try, Mama.”
    â€œSumday you’ll be free,” she continued. “I knows it, sumday we all be free. An’ w’en dat day comes, you fin’ him, you hear—you fin’ yer daddy an’ you tell him he wuz da bes’ man I eber knowed. I don’t care what you say ’bout him, you’s wrong, Jake, an’ don’t you say nuthin’ like dat ter me . . . not now.”
    â€œI won’t, Mama. I’s real sorry fo what I said dat day. I love you, Mama. I’s real sorry.”
    â€œDat’s good er you ter say, Jake,” she said softly, a feeble smile coming to her face. “I’s be better now, jes’ hearin’ dat. I cudn’t bear ter say good-bye wiffout it right atween us again.”
    â€œGood-bye . . . what you mean, Mama?” said Jake, fear clutching his heart.
    â€œJake, my boy,” replied his mother weakly, barely whispering now, “it’s time you gots ter be a man. I’s goin’ where you can’t go wiff me. Ain’t no one can go wiff me but da Lawd, an’ I’s almost see Him comin’ fer me . . . it’s all white dere in da distance. I know it’s Him. I can jes’ kinder make out da white er His robe . . . an’ He’s walkin’ tards me wiff His hand out ter take mine. Dere’s a smile on His face . . . He smilin’ jes’ ter see me! An’ He’s by hissel’ too, so I knows yer daddy’s still here on dis side er dat ol’ ribber called Jordan. He’s still here cuz da good Lawd, He wants you an’ yer papa ter fin’ one anudder’s arms agin. I knows it . . . so you fin’ him, Jake.”
    â€œHow will I fin’ him, Mama?” said Jake, his deep manvoice trembling like a boy’s.
    â€œDere wuz talk from one er Massa Clarkson’s house slaves dat he wuz sol’ up norf where Massa Clarkson had a brudder, sumwheres in Carolina. So you fin’ Carolina, Jake.”
    â€œWhat’s Carolina, Mama?”
    â€œDon’ know, Jake. Sumwheres up norf . . . you fin’ it.”
    She fumbled weakly in her bedclothes. A moment later her hand emerged clutching a tiny object. She took Jake’s hand, then opened her own. In it she held a small carved wooden horse.
    â€œTake dis, Jake,” she said in a voice that had grown so weak he had to lean down with his ear next to her mouth to make out her words. “Yer papa gib it ter me. Take it ter him . . . it be my way er tellin’ him I neber fergot how good he wuz ter me.”
    Jake nodded as he took the tiny horse his father had carved many years before.
    â€œYou fin’ Carolina, Jake,” his mother added, “whateber it be, whereber it be. I know dat sumday you’ll see dat freedom me an’ yer papa prayed ter see. So w’en you’s