Permanent footprints on the glass shelf of a museum. I’ve been dry for nearly 150 years and yet the dampness clings to me. A dark dampness. The kind that can only be found at the bottom of a river. After spending decades underwater, I am soggy and cannot be dried. From this shelf, I have a sliver of a view. I can just see the river that brought me here: destroyer and deliverer. 

Tired and worn, I have not been on anyone’s feet since Raymond. 150 years ago. The museum’s temperature settings ensure I will be preserved. It is a more reliable standard than the rushing current of water that was my old form of protection. I now rest behind thin, clear glass. This elegant cage contrasts my simple beginnings.  

Dust rested on top of the thick brown ground. It rose in puffs each time I was hit against the floor. His run was harsh. Dust settled on his ankles as he ran and then fell onto me. It coated my leather exterior as I was pushed against the earth. 

Running. It was night. The green landscape was dark as we sprinted away. Where were we headed? Why was it so dark? I knew the answers lay under a thick layer of denial. We thudded on. Right left right left right left. I could hear uneven breaths from his mouth. 

Should have stayed, should have stayed. Nothing could have been worse than this unknown. Not the days I was covered in leaves. Not the days he would heave himself onto the bed and slip me off his feet. Those days he had to squint to see the crop. The waves of the extensive tobacco field all ran together. Those days when his soles bled into mine. At least there was daylight. 

We continued walking on a path that did not exist. We began just north of Knoxville, Tennessee. I forged our way. If only I had the power to make Raymond stop and turn around. His legs and feet sped on. We rested while the sun spanned the sky. Pulled from his feet, I sat beside him. Rest at last. 

The whirr of a thousand locusts. The cricket-like bugs did not crawl onto us, but they crawled into our senses. After a while the hisses turned to white noise that we could ignore. Raymond stepped one foot into the creek. It felt uncomfortably wet and muddy on the bottom. 

When it was light, we stopped again. Raymond grabbed a fistful of dust from his knapsack. What for? He crossed his legs and slathered me with powder. It seemed to be made of spices. The smell of pepper choked me. It would have been better for me to return.

It went on for weeks. Sprinting through the night. Stick. Rock. Log. Jump. Puddle. How was he to know where he stepped? Everything was uncertain. Grass whipped by us, stinging Raymond’s legs. I became worn out and tired. We did not see the sun. Daylight meant finding shade and somewhere to sleep. 

“John Rankin,” Raymond whispered. “Ripley, Ohio. Liberty Hill. House on top.” His words were disappointing to me. We would not return to the plantation. 

The days and nights ran together. This went on far too long. Raymond dipped his toes to touch the moist, soggy ground. 

In the bog there was nowhere to take shelter. No food, no solid ground. I was soaked through. Sometimes Raymond was up to his waist in water. I continued to feel doubtful. Should have stayed, should have stayed. 

At one point, he stepped on a leather-like rope; it moved. Blindly kicking for a head, Raymond disarmed a snake. What would he do without me? His feet would be rotted and with no protection. That was the first time I remembered being glad we had each other. 

Even the sun was tired by the time we reached Kentucky. The summer was hot, and the bugs were busier than ever. They swayed with the reeds and pulsed with energy. Their noise grew louder as we neared the water.  

Right left right left. Raymond slowed and knelt at the banks of the river. His whole body shook. Even his feet, though he steadied himself on both knees. He worshipped the ground on the other side and prayed, hands clasped, eyes closed. 

“Ohio,” he murmured. This boy, he had never crossed a river this big in all his life. We were sure to drown.