The next day, the Raya house sat under a low, restless sky — the kind of sky that made the chickens peck at the dirt then run for cover before rain that hadn't yet come. Inside, Anna and Caleb sat with Elijah at their little table, heads bent together over notes, lists, scraps of affidavits — each scrap another stone they prayed would weigh down the scales just enough.
Amie hummed to herself, sitting in the corner with a rag doll made from an old flour sack. She didn't know her daddy's job might be gone now, or that her mama's name was being spit like poison from the mill to the church steps. She just knew the grown folks' voices stayed hushed until the door creaked open.
---
That afternoon, a knock came — two raps, crisp, polite, too steady to be one of the neighbors. Caleb stood up fast, his back stiffening as if expecting trouble to wear a badge.
Instead, the man on the porch wore a plain gray suit, dusty at the hem from the muddy road. He carried a battered leather case and nodded to Caleb with a thin smile.
"Caleb Raya?" the stranger asked, voice soft but clipped like city men always sounded.
Caleb frowned. "Who's askin'?"
The man removed his hat. "Name's Silas Pratt. Charleston NAACP. I've been reading about your boy — word got up to some good people who don't much care for lynch law dressed up as court business."
---
Inside, Silas laid out his papers — neatly folded, official-looking, with embossed letterheads from lawyers who'd never seen Alcolu but knew injustice when they smelled it.
Elijah read each page twice, eyes darting across the lines. His breath caught when he saw the stamps: Petition for Stay of Execution. Request for Transfer of Venue. Formal Complaint for Civil Rights Violations.
Anna touched one page with trembling fingers. "This mean they gonna take him outta here?" she asked.
Silas shook his head. "Not yet. But it means the judge'll think twice. Means the governor's office might look this way. Means the sheriff can't keep this buried in his pocket no more."
---
For the first time in weeks, Anna felt the world outside their tiny clapboard walls lean in — not just to watch, but to push back.
Caleb poured Silas a cup of weak coffee and asked the question that scratched every father's throat raw: "They gonna come for you, too? Sheriff see you with us?"
Silas gave a dry chuckle. "They'll see me soon enough. But my folks back in Charleston — they got papers, money, and friends with longer reach than one drunk sheriff with a badge. He puts hands on me, he'll find out quick enough."
---
But word travels faster than paper.
By dusk, Sheriff Hammond knew a stranger from the city was stirring up more noise. He sat on the porch of his office, hat tipped low, Croft lingering nearby pretending to sweep dust that never stayed gone.
"Charleston lawyer," Hammond spat. "NAACP." He said the word like it tasted sour on his tongue.
Croft didn't look up. He kept sweeping. But inside, his chest eased just a hair — more eyes meant less room for the sheriff's fists to swing unseen.
Hammond's gaze drifted to the setting sun burning the pine tops orange. "Fine. They want a show, we'll give 'em one. But when this ends, it'll end my way."
---
That night, Elijah sat with Silas under the oil lamp while Caleb dozed in a chair and Anna brushed Amie's hair at her feet.
"We've got affidavits, Croft's testimony, Mabel Turner's word, a motion to suppress — and now Charleston behind us," Elijah said, voice half wonder, half worry. "But that sheriff's got a noose in his back pocket. He'll use it if he thinks we're getting close."
Silas's eyes narrowed behind his wire spectacles. "Then we stay louder than his rope. This town's about to learn they're not the only ones watching."
---
And in the jail, Ikrist curled under his thin blanket, listening to the wind rattle the window bars. He didn't know about Silas Pratt or Charleston's promises — but he dreamed of voices, strong and sure, calling his name through the storm.