The morning after Anna handed Elijah her boy's shirt and soap, the sky over Alcolu sat gray and still — a waiting kind of gray, like the whole town was holding its breath to see if the truth would break through or blow away like smoke.
---
Elijah Carter hadn't slept. He sat on the train station bench just after dawn, a battered satchel at his feet and Silas Pratt pacing beside him, coat collar turned up against the chill.
"You sure about Charleston?" Silas asked for the third time.
Elijah rubbed his eyes. "I'm sure. The local papers here won't print more than a footnote — too scared of Hammond's boots on their steps. But Charleston? Columbia? New York if we have to — we light a match big enough, someone's got to see the smoke."
Silas gave a dry chuckle. "And the sheriff? He sees you take this to the city, you think he's gonna sit polite?"
Elijah's mouth twitched at the corner. "Let him come. Better he watches me than digs another grave for a boy who's still breathing."
---
By noon, the train clattered east — Elijah wedged in a hard seat, knees pressed to the satchel brimming with affidavits, Croft's statement, Mabel Turner's sworn word, and the fresh petition Silas had scrawled out in the church office while thunder cracked over the pines.
At every stop, Elijah pictured the sheriff's car prowling the rails, headlights slicing through the dusk like a wolf's eyes. But when the conductor called Charleston, Elijah stepped off alone — shoulders squared, heart thumping like he'd just stolen fire.
---
Two hours later, a typesetter at the Charleston Gazette stared at the neat stack of papers Elijah dropped on his desk. The man's sleeves were rolled to his elbows, ink under his nails.
"You're telling me," the typesetter said slowly, "they got a boy in jail down there — twelve, thirteen years old — and they're railroading him to the rope on a paper he never signed?"
Elijah leaned in, eyes hard. "You print this. You run it front page. You tell your editor the world's gonna watch how Alcolu buries children alive."
The typesetter tapped a finger on Croft's statement — the part where the deputy swore the sheriff made him lie. Then he looked up and nodded once.
"Give me six hours," he said. "We'll set the type."
---
By nightfall, copies of the Gazette rolled out with a headline big enough to knock the pine dust off every porch in Alcolu:
"CHILD FACES GALLOWS — EVIDENCE FALSE, SAYS DEPUTY"
The paper spread by rail, by word of mouth, by hands too tired from millwork to read every line but sure enough to carry it from porch to porch. In the colored quarters, neighbors read it aloud on stoops by lamplight. In the white streets, men folded it under their coats, scowled, spat, whispered Lies while their wives traded glances they didn't dare voice.
---
Sheriff Hammond read it at his desk, the headline trembling just slightly in his grip.
Croft stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the badge pinned crooked to Hammond's vest.
"You lose this town, Sheriff," Croft said, voice flat. "You lose the rope, too."
Hammond didn't answer. He set the paper down, smooth and careful — like he might set fire to it if Croft blinked.
---
Back at the Raya house, Anna unfolded the crumpled paper Silas brought from the train station, her finger tracing the headline over and over like it was a prayer.
Caleb stood behind her, arms crossed. "It's ink on paper," he said. "Won't stop a man like Hammond."
Anna turned to him, her eyes fierce. "No. But ink can make a fire, Caleb. And we ain't done feeding it."
Amie tugged at Anna's apron, peeking at the bold black letters she couldn't read yet — but she saw her brother's name and knew it meant hope.
---
And in his cell that night, Ikrist Raya felt fever tug at his mind like dark water. But through the haze, he dreamed of a newspaper drifting through the bars — pages flapping, carrying voices far beyond the jail's cold walls.