Even the driver seemed to slow the horses slightly, though perhaps Caleb only imagined it.
Samuel’s tiny hand emerged from the blanket.
His fingers opened.
Caleb touched one.
The baby closed his fist around it.
Caleb broke.
He turned his face toward the window because he did not want strangers watching him cry.
Eliza saw anyway.
“You didn't fail him.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You don't know what I've done.”
“I know what you've been doing for three days.”
“Not enough.”
“You brought him four hundred miles looking for help.”
Caleb stared.
“You've barely slept.”
“How would you know?”
“I haven't either.”
Their eyes held.
Something passed between them that was neither romance nor simple gratitude.
Recognition.
Two people living inside the same kind of ruin.
Samuel slowed.
Eliza adjusted the blanket.
That was when Mrs. Henderson suddenly leaned forward.
“Wait.”
Eliza looked up.
“What?”
Mrs. Henderson pointed.
“There.”
Inside the folded edge of the cream blanket, something white had appeared.
A narrow cloth tag.
Eliza frowned.
She pulled the fabric slightly.
The tag had been sewn into an inner seam, hidden beneath several layers of wool.
Faded blue handwriting covered it.
Mrs. Henderson’s face changed.
“Let me see.”
Eliza carefully kept Samuel covered while turning the blanket edge outward.
Mrs. Henderson read.
Then stopped breathing.
“What is it?” Caleb asked.
The older woman looked at Eliza.
“Where did you get this blanket?”
Eliza frowned.
“The infirmary.”
“In Julesburg?”
“Yes.”
“They returned my daughter's things after…”
She could not finish.
Mrs. Henderson reached toward the tag but did not touch.
Her fingers trembled.
“I know this handwriting.”
Eliza’s face tightened.
“What handwriting?”
“I helped at that infirmary last month.”
Mrs. Henderson leaned closer.
“This isn't a burial tag.”
Eliza became completely still.
Caleb looked between them.
“What is it?”
Mrs. Henderson read aloud.
“Infant Moore. Female.”
Eliza’s lips parted.
Then another line.
“Transfer approved.”
Silence.
Eliza stared.
“No.”
Mrs. Henderson’s face had gone almost gray.
“There is a transfer code underneath.”
Eliza shook her head.
“No.”
“They told me she died.”
Mrs. Henderson looked at her.
“I know.”
“You're mistaken.”
“I am not.”
Eliza’s voice rose.
“They put her body in a box.”
Mrs. Henderson flinched.
“Did you see her?”
Eliza froze.
The question seemed to strike physically.
“I…”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came.
Caleb looked at her.
Eliza’s breathing changed.
“They wouldn't let me.”
Mrs. Henderson closed her eyes.
“Oh, dear God.”
Eliza gripped the blanket.
Samuel stirred.
Caleb immediately placed one hand over hers.
“Eliza.”
She did not hear him.
“They said fever had taken her.”
Mrs. Henderson whispered:
“There was no infant burial from that infirmary during the week I volunteered there.”
Eliza looked as though she might faint.
“What are you saying?”
Mrs. Henderson looked directly into her eyes.
“I am saying your daughter may have left Julesburg alive.”