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Closing her eyes, she let the colors swirl behind the darkness of her lids. The rope of the swing turned from weathered tan to a shocking yellow. The seat of the swing became golden brown. It rose in her mind’s eye, tossed by the wind into an azure sky.
    Then she shifted her focus to the trees—their trunks slick and shiny with her black paint, bubbles of deep green like little mossy outcroppings popping up and down their mighty lengths. The leaves were in juxtaposition—the ones still attached to their branches, the stubborn ones, growing old and brown while the dead ones on the lawn became bright, alive again in golden yellows, fiery orange, and violet reds. Their veins pulsed with
a blue-green blood. The grass brightened to a yellow-green, swaying in the breeze, then she deepened the color in her mind, adding a hint of blue. Her breath caught as the world outside her window became a fairy place where princesses and dragons roamed, a place not seen on this earth.
    “Yes, the light is soft but bright.” She breathed the thought aloud, imagining the slant of the sunlight and all the shadowy places. Her eyes shot open, her hand pressed flat against her beating heart. Where were her paints? She had to get this image onto canvas before it blew away on an earthly breeze. She knew nothing this astonishing would last long in her imagination. A part of her feared it—this knowing of what she wanted and then the battle to get it down. It was always like this—elusive and frantic. But she had to try.
    “Now where are my paints?” She was forever leaving things scattered about.
    She turned, facing the bedroom she shared with her sister, a furrow between her brows. Mary Ann’s side of the room was, of course, as neat as a pin. Hers? She grimaced. She just couldn’t seem to put things back in their proper place, nor even imagine what that place might be.
    She crouched down, flipped the quilt up onto the bed, and peered underneath. Ah! There was her pile of rolled-up canvas. Now, where were those paints? She hoped she hadn’t left them somewhere, some new spot she’d found in her roamings where she had painted last. Her mother would not be pleased to find her begging for more paint.
    The door banged open. Mary Ann stood at the threshold, a little breathless. “Serena, come quick! Another ship has arrived.”
    It took Serena a moment to comprehend that the time to paint was lost. She groaned, knowing she might not ever capture that colorful land in her imagination. A profound sense of loss touched her as she stared at the rolled-up canvas, aching for the feel of stretching it over a wood frame. But another part of her, one equally strong, wanted to help.
    Serena stood, gave the canvas one last stare, and then turned to get her bonnet. “I am coming.”
    It was time to go. Time to leave dreams and imaginings, and do what she could to help the indentured who traveled to America on a hope and a dream.

    IT WAS EVENING. The gentle rocking in the hold mocked Drake’s inner turmoil. He lay curled on his side, squeezed onto the narrow confines of the cot where he spent much of his time. His arms were raised, wrapping around his head, covering his ears. His eyes were closed to the misery around him. The first few weeks of the journey proved just how stark reality had become. Seasickness was rampant. Vomit made a miserable mess of the hold, and the stench of it clung to the air, making it impossible to breathe deep. The fresh air of top deck was a distant, haunting memory. Once onto open sea, Drake had been shocked to realize that they were considered more cargo than passenger, rather like cattle than human. Basic needs and rights were now in the hands of a captain whose eyes glowed with fanatical greed. Drake knew the type—and knew the future would not be pretty for the lot of them.
    Many of his fellow passengers were ill before leaving London. This combined with foul food and toilet habits added to their misery, leaving