Crowe rested a hand on the whip hanging at his belt.
“You heard him.”
Elijah worked slowly because haste would reveal how much he understood.
He removed the old screws and discovered that the interior wood had been gouged around the latch.
Somebody had tried to force the door from inside with a bent piece of metal.
Several scratches crossed the lower panel at child height.
Crowe noticed Elijah looking.
“Rats,” he said.
Elijah knew rats did not carve lines shaped like letters.
One of the scratches resembled an M, followed by a wavering vertical stroke.
He covered the marks with his hand and measured the hinge, buying a little more time.
Richard’s attention shifted toward the yard when a rider approached through the trees.
The rider wore a dark frock coat and held a leather document tube against his chest.
He greeted Richard as “Colonel” but did not dismount.
“The second list is ready,” the stranger said.
“Your passengers must be moved before the inspection.” Richard glanced at Elijah.
“Speak elsewhere.” They moved out of earshot, leaving Crowe to supervise.
Elijah kept working while their voices drifted through the open window in fragments.
He heard the words affidavits, county line, and northern claimants.
He also heard the name Lydia spoken once, followed by a silence that suggested the stranger had said something unforgivable.
When the rider left, Richard handed Elijah the final screws.
“You will forget this work.” Elijah looked at the plate and answered carefully.
“I remember every repair, sir.
That is how I keep the joints sound.” Richard’s jaw tightened.
“Then remember that your wife and children sleep on my land.” The message required no explanation.
Elijah fitted the plate, but he left one screw shorter than the others.
It would hold under ordinary pressure, yet someone with a thin blade might eventually work it loose.
He knew the decision was dangerous.
He made it because a door designed to imprison had to contain some hidden possibility of opening.
At dusk he returned to the cabin and found Samuel crouched beneath the table.
Ruth stood beside him holding a scrap of folded cloth.
“A woman gave this to me near the creek,” she whispered.
“She said I should give it to the carpenter who knows the old hinges.” Elijah opened the cloth carefully.
Inside lay a copper button, a broken pencil, and a single sentence written in a small, firm hand.
“The names are not the dead.” Beneath the words was a letter y ending in a backward hook.
