“Ghosts don’t use bows and arrows,” I whispered. He started to raise his head out of the high grass, but I pinched him and he got down again. We listened. The fog made everything damp and slick and quiet even. We hadn’t heard a footfall or arrow shot in, what… five minutes? Ten? I couldn’t tell. I wished I hadn’t lost my watch.

The sound of voices off to our left startled us. I nudged the kid and we started crawling away. When we reached the edge of the grass, I could see a treeline about fifty yards away, beyond a fence. Beyond that, I could see the barracks of Camp Cypress. Andersonville.

“Go?” the kid said, and I nodded. He sprinted for the treeline with me right behind him. As we neared the fence, an arrow whistled past my ear. The kid yelped and ran faster. He leapt and caught hold of the chain link fence, jamming his fingers into the links to climb.

There was a crackling sound from the metal fence, like oak knots bursting in a fire, and his body went stiff. He dropped to the ground, shaking, his eyes rolling back to show the whites. And that’s when I noticed the men with the bows and arrows creeping out of the trees, surrounding us.