“I’m thinking Canada,” I say.
He looks at me and his eyes open wide in surprise. He must realize what I’m really saying:
Slowly, he breaks into a smile, and I can’t help smiling back.
He reaches down and leans on the throttle, and I feel the boat accelerate just a bit.
“Canada it is,” he says.
I lean further back, starting to relax for the first time. For some reason, I think of Dad. I wonder if he’s up there, looking down on us. If he is, would he be proud? I feel that he would. I can almost hear his voice:
It will be a long road ahead of us, I realize that. Soon, we’ll run out of fuel. Then out of food. It will get dark, colder. The Hudson will turn to ice, and we’ll have to find shelter. The slaverunners will be after us, and if we don’t keep moving, they’ll find us.
But I also realize I can worry about all of this later. For once in my life, I can just sit back and enjoy
I lean back in the plush leather seat and take another swig of champagne, and it goes right to my head. I haven’t had a decent meal in days, and I know I shouldn’t drink. But right now, I don’t care. We’re cruising up the Hudson, it’s a sunny, beautiful morning, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, everything is good in the world. I look over and, surprisingly, see a patch of bright purple flowers, somehow surviving, sticking up in the snow. They are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, glowing in the sunlight. I wonder how they can even be real.
I close my eyes and feel the salty air on my face. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think:
