The late afternoon sun cast long shafts of light through the woods separating North and South Hester. Maples and elms ran east to west like protective arms, raised high in a united front against those bad people from the north. Of Hester's 968 acres, the woods accounted for 239, pretty close to twenty-five percent. For the wildlife, whether the deer on the land or the trout in the streams, this was their home, pure and simple. For the coloreds of South Hester, the woods served as a peaceful retreat, or in situations like today, a welcome cover for escape.

Henry emerged from the woods, pushing aside thickets. He lumbered forward and dropped to his knees on the wild grass, breathing labored and heart thumping wild in his chest. The grassy strip ran alongside a wide dirt road, flanked on the other side by another stretch of grass and more woods. Henry lowered his head between his palms, cradling his temples, the inside of his skull feeling like it was getting scraped by a sharp blade.

Willy came up behind Henry and leaned over, hands pressed to knees and sucking in air. "Got to keep moving."

Henry tried to talk but his throat was parched, despite the sweat pouring down his face and neck. He lifted his head, blinking away tears, and let out a low groan at the sight of the old stone bridge ahead.

Henry remembered a time with Papa, the two of them sitting on the porch of the ranch house, Papa telling him the story of how Henry's great-great grandfather, a slave in 1776 after the American Revolution, helped to build that bridge, wide enough for three horse-drawn wagons. Ben Franklin traveled by train all the way from Philadelphia to christen it under its original name: Union Bridge. In 1912, Mayor Garrison Pritchard declared, "That bridge belongs to the white community!"–bitter words from a bitter man, uttered at a Hester council meeting that started on the topic of jailing abolitionists and ended with the unanimous vote to rename the old bridge after a black-face play actor who symbolized mockery unbound.

Jim Crow Bridge.

Willy placed a hand on Henry's shoulder.

"We're almost there," Henry said, his voice sounding coarse, the words flat.

In the woods, Henry had plodded along the trails, favoring his left knee. An injury from the fall, he supposed. Heck, he even struggled to keep up with Willy on the hills, and that was a first. A dozen or so colored folk hurried past them at different points, all heading south. Most kept to themselves. A few shot Henry deathly looks, and he wondered if maybe they blamed him for this mess.

Now in the open, Willy grabbed Henry under the arm and hoisted him to his feet like he weighed a penny. Henry grunted as weight returned to his knee.

Willy's eyes rounded big. "You need a doctor."

Henry met Willy's gaze. "I told you, no doctor."

Big Willy pressed his lips flat, and Henry gave him a don't-argue-with-me look. A moment later, Willy was looking around frantically.

"What's wrong?" Henry said.

"Listen," he whispered.

Henry turned his head. A cool breeze brushed across his ears, carrying the distant sound of barking dogs. If the cops had gotten control of the riot, they were probably sweeping out, pushing the colored folk back to their homes. Like the ones in the woods.

Or maybe they're looking for me.

If they were looking for Henry and found him, he'd bet his back pay they'd night stick him a few times for good measure before dragging him to a dirty jail cell for instigating a riot. And they'd arrest Big Willy too for helping a fugitive.

"Can you walk?" Willy said. "Don't make me throw you over my shoulder 'cause you know I will."

Henry wanted to chuckle, but he set weight on his left leg and winced. "I think so."

"We need to get you help," Willy said. "You still bleeding."

Henry touched the side of his head and his fingers came away a sticky red, not the dried liver-brown soaked into his Rooks shirt. His head still hurt something fierce but at least his nausea had subsided, and he had stopped throwing up; twice in the woods. Henry had heard stories of colored players who had literally gotten the sense knocked out of them, and whether the affects started right away or in a few weeks, those men were never right again. Certainly not right enough to play baseball.

"Okay," Henry said. "But where are we going to find help around here?"

"I know a place," Willy said.

Willy put a hand around the back of Henry's waist, and together they started across the bridge. Underneath, a stream flowed west, and the water tumbled like a giant mouth gargling giant rocks.

On the other side of the bridge, Henry and Willy continued along the dirt road. The only sign of civilization was the shallow groove of wagon wheel tracks, occasionally obscured by the tracks of deer, raccoons, or some other wild animal.

About five minutes later, they paused. Willy pointed to a tiny shack standing at a sharp bend in the road ahead. "Over there."

Henry had jogged the back roads of Hester hundreds of times but never along this undeveloped part of town. Most black business folk avoided this area like the plague. Said it was too close to the white side. Felt any racial retaliation would happen here before it happened anywhere else in the colored district.

They stopped in front of a meager tin shack set on a narrow plot no more than thirty feet wide and sixty feet deep where the woods had started to creep forward again. The flat roof was covered with fragments of dirt, leaves, and a fine coating of rust. The front door looked like it was made of cheap plywood, resting on ancient metal hinges, dark green paint peeling away like the dead skin off a shedding snake. A sign in the dust-coated window read: Al's Car Repair.

"Seriously?" Henry gave Willy a wide-eyed glare, attempting to ignore the painful thrumming above his temples.

"Yeah," Willy said. "My cousin's been here. Said an old guy runs the place. I bet he'll give you a clean rag for your head and let you sit a spell. Then when things calm down, we can head on home."

Henry sighed and tilted his head to the door.

Willy let go of Henry slowly, careful to make sure he wouldn't lose his balance.

"I'm not going to fall over," Henry said, a little irate, then waving a hand dismissively. "Just check the door."

Big Willy stepped up to the front door and gave the knob a couple quick turns...locked.

Henry and Willy exchanged disappointed looks when they heard the sharp clangs of metal striking metal. A hammer, maybe, banging on something. It was coming from nearby. Three bangs, four, five. Then it stopped.

Henry took a few cautious steps back and looked to the left. He looked back at Willy. Then he looked to the left again.

Beside the tiny shack, the next lot over looked enormous. The property was hidden by a rickety wood fence, some six feet tall, that hadn't seen a brush of paint or stain in years. The wood-paneled door in the middle of the fence was open.

Henry gestured towards the opening in the fence.

Willy dipped his chin in agreement.

Inside the fence, the lot looked like a graveyard of dusty cars, missing wheels, mirrors, and other vital parts. To his left, Henry noticed four jalopies lined up side-by-side like cadavers at the city morgue. Not that he knew anything about cadavers or the morgue other than what he'd read as a kid in the pulp magazines. Still, Henry admired the cars, uncertain if he could tell a Stanley Steamer apart from a Rolls Royce. Sad but true, baseball had been his full-time love.

Henry turned his attention to the back of the lot where he spotted a quaint wood-framed house, pear-green with brown trim, maybe five or six rooms inside, he guessed. Another shack, slightly larger than the one out front and in much better condition, sat beside the house almost like an afterthought. Together the two seemed like an odd couple.

Willy pointed to another odd sight to their right—an immaculate red-brick garage, large enough for two cars. The metal-on-metal banging resumed. Another five clangs. It was coming from inside the garage.

Willy shot Henry a puzzled look and shrugged.

"Let's get this over with," Henry said, wanting the pain in his head to go away.

The boys stepped in front of the open garage bay and peered inside the dim interior lit by a trio of oil lanterns. A figure in a baggy mechanics uniform hunched over the engine of a car, his back to them, a slender arm tensing as a wrench twisted in the gears.

"Excuse me, sir!" Big Willy said.

The mechanic paused and straightened up before dropping the wrench into his back pocket.

As the mechanic turned around, Henry let out a quiet gasp.

He was a she!