Kitabı oku: «Between You and Me»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: Harvest

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Two: The Match

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Susan Wiggs

About the Publisher

Prologue

On the day you were born, when you were only a few hours in this world, I tucked you into an old apple crate and left you behind like a piece of my beating heart, like an offering to a god I didn’t believe in but didn’t dare not believe in. Some might say you were a human sacrifice, but in that moment, I felt as though I was the sacrifice, not you.

Because in that moment, something inside me died.

Though I was too young to know anything, I truly imagined I was leaving you to a better life … I didn’t want to walk away, but I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t.

After all we’d been through that year, I was self-aware enough to realize my youth and ignorance would be a danger to you, yet smart enough to figure out what to do. I didn’t know anything about the modern world, about the city, about the law, about the inexorable ties that bind the heart. All I knew was that you’d be better off with a different future. With some other family to guide you. With some other life, far from Middle Grove.

By that time, I understood very well what happens at a hospital. They save people. They saved me. So I took you to a place where I knew you’d be saved.

Of course, that’s not how the papers reported it. The news media focused on the most sensational aspect of the case—an abandoned baby, a mysterious puzzle to be solved, a terrible family secret hidden by a distrustful, closed community that walled itself off from the rest of the world.

But the papers got it wrong.

ONE
Harvest

AUGUST

Difficulty is a miracle in its first stage.

—AMISH PROVERB

1

The silver flash of a jet plane glinted in the morning sky. Caleb Stoltz tipped back his brimmed hat and watched it soar high overhead. Against the flawless summer blue, the plane glittered like a rare jewel—precious and out of reach.

“Hey, look, Uncle Caleb. Plane tracks,” said Jonah, pointing out the twin white plumes that bisected the sky in the flight path of the jet.

Caleb grinned at his nephew and handed him a galvanized milk pail, half-filled from the milk house. “They’re called contrails. Don’t slosh it,” he cautioned. “I’ll be in to breakfast shortly.”

Lugging the pail, the boy headed for the white clapboard house, his dusty bare feet leaving shallow impressions in the dry earth. Jonah’s skinny legs, browned by a summer of swimming at Crystal Falls up the creek a ways, protruded comically from his tattered black trousers, which only a short while ago had fit him. Now eleven, the kid was growing like the corn in high summer. Caleb would have to get Hannah to sew him a new pair of pants before school started in a few weeks. If not for the way the kids were growing, he would have no notion of the passage of time.

On a farm, the seasons were important, not the years.

Caleb washed down the milking shed, the stream of water hissing on the concrete and misting his work boots. He turned off the hose, reeled it in, and left the shed, glancing up at the puffy trail of clouds dissipating in the sky. The jet was long gone, off to New York or Bangkok or some other place Caleb had no hope of ever seeing. He studied the flight path and then wondered why it was called a path when there was no visible roadway, nothing to mark its way but invisible air. It was only after the jet had passed that its route could be seen.

If Rebecca were with him, she would quirk her brow and scold him for idle thoughts. Then he would challenge her to offer proof that any thought could be idle, and her quirked brow would knit in incomprehension. “I swear, Caleb Stoltz,” she would say, and then she’d change the subject. That was her way.

Ah, Rebecca. She was going to be the most difficult part of his day. The problem had been weighing on his mind for far too long. Time to stop putting off the inevitable. They were supposed to have an understanding. She believed that one of these days, she would get her clock from him, the traditional gift of engagement, and she’d present Caleb with an embroidered cloth to symbolize her acceptance. Baptism, marriage, and a family wouldn’t be far behind. Though she wasn’t keen to raise Caleb’s niece and nephew and take care of his father, she was willing to do her duty.

Caleb needed to acknowledge the truth his gut had been telling him since the day the church elders had presented him with the notion that he and Rebecca Zook should marry. And that truth was going to make for a hard conversation. He had a fine, warm affection for Rebecca, but it was not the deep love that would bind a man and woman for life. He wasn’t even sure that sort of love existed.

It wouldn’t be fair to string her along.

Standing in the yard, he surveyed the farm for a few moments, taking in the sweep of the broad valley that ran down from the Pocono hills. The fields were an abundant patchwork of corn, wheat, alfalfa, and sorghum, spread out over rolling landscape as far as the eye could see. In the distance, Eli Kemp and his sons were cradling wheat. Their scythes swung in tandem to the rhythm of a hymn they were singing, the sound traveling across the valley in the quiet of the morning. They moved along the rows like a line of industrious soldier ants, the forked cradles felling the stalks neatly to one side. Eli’s wife trailed behind, bundling sheaves.

That was Middle Grove, Caleb thought. Faith, work, and family, stitched together by the common thread of devotion. Other farmers in the district might breathe the sweet air and offer up a silent prayer. Thank you for this day, O Lord. But not Caleb. Not in a long, long time.

From the neighboring farm, the roar of a hydraulic engine broke the stillness of the morning, its mechanical cough obliterating the Kemps’ singing. The Haubers were getting ready to fill silo today. The diesel-powered shredder would be used to chop the corn for blowing into the silo.

Caleb would be going over to help after he spoke with Rebecca. In the meantime, he stayed busy. He liked being busy. It kept him from thinking too hard about things. The sun was out, there were chores to do, and the work went fast when neighbors pitched in together.

Taking off his hat, he wiped the sweat from his brow and headed inside. Despite all the open windows, the kitchen was stifling hot. The old iron stove door yawned open with a metallic protest as his niece, Hannah, added fuel to boil the coffee. Smoke and the reek of burned toast layered the room in a misty gray haze.

“Hannah burned the toast again,” Jonah announced, unnecessarily.

His sister, who was sixteen and as incomprehensible as an alien life-form in a science fiction novel, planted her fists on her hips. “I wouldn’t have burned a thing if you hadn’t spilled the milk.” She glared accusingly at a blue-white puddle on the scuffed linoleum floor.

“Well, I wouldn’t have spilled it if you hadn’t called me a brutz baby.”

“You are one,” she retorted. “Always pouting.”

“Huh. You’re gonna get married and have a real baby and then you’ll know what it’s like.”

“Hey, hey.” Caleb held up a hand for silence. “It’s not even seven o’clock and you two are squabbling already.”

“But she called me a—”

“Enough, Jonah.” Caleb didn’t raise his voice, but the sharpness of his tone cut through the boy’s sass. The brother and sister bickered a lot, but a deep bond held them close. Orphaned by a horrendous disaster, they shared a sense of vulnerability that made them cling together, closer than most siblings. “Did you get something to eat?”

“He made grape slush out of his cornflakes again,” Hannah said. “It’s disgusting.” Jonah’s strange habit of putting grape jelly on his cereal never failed to gross her out.

“It’s better than burnt—” Catching Caleb’s warning look, Jonah snapped his mouth shut.

“Go on over to the Haubers’,” Caleb said. “Tell them I’ll be along shortly.”

“Okay.” Jonah jammed on his hat and headed for the door.

“Be sure you watch yourself around the machinery, you hear?” Caleb cautioned, thinking of the shredder’s sharp blades and the powerful auger at the bottom of the silo.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been helping out since I was knee-high to a grasshopper,” Jonah said with a cocky grin, the one that never failed to chase away Caleb’s annoyance. “Oh! Almost forgot my lucky penny.” He scampered to his room and returned with the token. It was a coin flattened in a penny press machine at the old water-powered sawmill over in Blakeslee, a souvenir of Jonah’s only trip away from Middle Grove. He tucked the coin into his pocket, then yanked open the screen door.

“See you at lunchtime,” Caleb said.

“All right.”

“And don’t slam—”

The door banged shut.

“—the door,” Caleb finished, shaking his head.

Hannah was still mopping up the milk while Caleb washed at the kitchen sink. Through the window above the basin, he could see Jonah racing like a jackrabbit across the field to the silo. Jubilee, the collie mix that followed the kid everywhere, loped along at his side. With a sudden leap, Jonah launched himself into the air, then planted his hands on the ground as his legs and bare feet flew overhead in an exuberant handspring. This was the boy’s special skill, his lithe young body’s expression of pure joy, perhaps his way of embracing the perfect summer morning.

In the kitchen, an awkward silence hung as thick as the smoke. Lately, Caleb didn’t know what to say to his sullen niece. She had been so young when he’d left Middle Grove under a glowering shadow of disapproval from the elders. He’d had every intention of finding a life away from the community. But he had returned, reeled back in by a hideous tragedy. By that time, Hannah had turned into a skinny, nervous twelve-year-old, haunted by nightmares of her murdered parents.

Now his niece was a stranger, the lone girl in a household of men, with no woman’s hand to guide her. Just Caleb, who was ridiculously ill-equipped to deal with her, and his father, Asa, a man who clung with iron fists to the old ways. Already, some of Hannah’s friends were getting baptized and promised to young men. He could scarcely imagine his little niece as a wife and mother.

He finished scrubbing his hands and dried them, then fixed up a tray with his father’s breakfast and left it on the table as usual. Asa always got up early to read Die Botschaft in the quiet of the toolshed adjacent to the house. Caleb opened a cupboard and took a wad of cash from the coffee can, folding the bills into his wallet. After chores, and after his talk with Rebecca, he planned to go up to Grantham Farm to bring home a new horse. Baudouin, the sturdy Belgian, was old. He’d given his all and had earned a fine retirement in the pasture, and now Caleb needed a replacement. He ran a yoke of draft horses to make extra money to keep up with the bills on the farm. His team was in demand, especially in winter, when cars got stuck and fallen trees needed to be dragged out of the way. It was remarkable how much hauling English folks needed.

Glancing out the window again, he saw Jonah scrambling like a monkey up the conveyor belt to feed the bound corn shocks into the grinder. The kid loved high places and always volunteered for them. Caleb had always liked that chore too. The world looked entirely different when viewed from the high opening of the silo. He used to imagine the tower scene from Lord of the Rings, a forbidden novel that had once earned him a caning from his father when he’d been caught reading it. While feeding the stalks to the shredder, Caleb used to pretend that the mouthful of whirring, glistening blades belonged to a fierce dragon guarding the tower.

“Sorry about the toast, Uncle Caleb,” Hannah spoke up, taking the charred remains out of the wire rack.

“Not a problem.” To lighten the moment, he grabbed a piece and took a huge bite, closing his eyes and pretending to savor it. “Ah,” he said. “Ambrosia.”

She laughed a little. “Oh, Uncle Caleb. Don’t be silly.”

He choked down the rest of the toast and grinned, showing his charcoal teeth. “Who’s being silly?”

“What’s ambrosia, anyway? You’re always using big words, for sure.”

“It’s what the gods of Greek myth ate,” he said. “So I reckon it means something good enough to feed to the gods.”

She gasped at the mention of Greek gods—another forbidden topic—then whisked the toast crumbs from the counter. “You’re so smart.”

“Knowing the meaning of a word doesn’t make me smart.”

“Sure it does. I heard Rebecca say you went away and came back smarter, and that’s why you still haven’t joined the order—’cause your head’s all full of prideful English nonsense.”

“Rebecca likes to hear herself talk.” At the mention of her name, Caleb felt a trickle of sweat slide down his neck. Rebecca’s notion that his time away had made him proud was yet another reason they weren’t a good match. Getting an education didn’t make a man proud. Instead, it was humbling.

In his time away, Caleb had done the unthinkable. Against all Amish principles, he had attended college classes. The traditional eighth-grade education had left a thirst in his soul, and he’d sought out books and knowledge the way a man seeks cold lemonade on a hot August day. He used to ride his bike thirteen miles each way to take classes at the community college, soaking up lessons in history, philosophy, logic, calculus, and the kind of science that had nothing to do with crop yields or tending livestock. It was humbling to discover how much he didn’t know about the world, how much he had yet to learn. He had just been starting out when he’d had to come back. These days, he imagined the world he’d discovered beyond Middle Grove shimmering like a chimera on the horizon, out of reach, yet tauntingly real.

Hannah finished tidying the kitchen in her negligent, haphazard way. When Caleb’s father came in, he’d likely point out the crumbs on the floor and the dish towels left out on the counter. He’d probably also scowl at his breakfast tray and remark that a proper Amish family broke bread together around the table, their scrubbed faces lit by the inspiration of silent prayer before they dived into hotcakes with berry preserves and thick slices of salty ham.

But they weren’t like other families. Caleb could only do so much.

“Uncle Caleb?”

At the tentative note in Hannah’s voice, he turned to her. To his surprise, her cheeks shone a dull red against the loose strings of her black kapp.

“What is it, liebchen?” He used the old endearment, hoping the familiar word would sound soothing to her ears.

“There’s, um, a singing Sunday night at the great hall,” she said. “I was wondering, um, could I go?”

“I reckon you could do that,” he said. The singings took place on a church Sunday after services. The adults would leave for the evening so the kids could gather around the table and sing—not the slow morning chants meant for devotion, but the faster ones, meant to get the kids talking. And “talking” actually meant sizing each other up, because the goal was to get the young folk started with their courtships. It seemed contrived, but no more so than a high school dance in the outside world.

“All righty, then,” Hannah said, all fluttering hands and darting eyes.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Can I get a ride home in Aaron Graber’s buggy?” she asked, all in a rush.

Caleb felt an unpleasant thud of surprise in his gut. Aaron Graber, he thought. More like Aaron Grabber. Caleb wasn’t so sure he liked the idea of little Hannah running around with a boy, particularly that one, who looked at girls the way a fox eyes a hen.

A distant, frenzied barking sounded through the window, but Caleb gave his full attention to his niece. This was kind of a big deal. She wanted to go courting. His little Hannah, courting. It seemed like only yesterday he was showing her how to get a hit in slow-pitch softball and making her giggle at his stupid jokes. Where was that Hannah now?

“Well,” he said, “I don’t think—”

“Please, Uncle Caleb,” she said. “He asked me special.”

Before he could reply, the kitchen door slapped open with a violent bang. Levi Hauber’s face was the color of old snow, and his shoulders shook visibly. Even before he spoke, the sheer horror in his eyes froze Caleb’s blood.

“Come quick,” Levi said. “It’s Jonah. There’s been an accident.”

2

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” muttered Reese Powell as her work phone buzzed rudely against her side like a small electric shock. God. She’d just closed her eyes for a much-needed nap. Checking the screen, she saw that it was a summons from Mel, her supervising resident, in the ER. With brisk, mechanical movements, she put on her short white lab coat, looped a stethoscope around her neck, and headed out of the break room.

The long, gleaming corridor was littered with equipment and gurneys, the occasional patient slumped in a wheelchair, a rolling biohazard bin or two. Nurses and orderlies swished past, hurrying to their next call.

Reese blinked away the last of the foiled nap and took a deep breath. I will do right by my patients. This was her mantra, the one she’d adopted as a fourth-year medical student. I will do right by my patients. She had spent three years studying, cramming her head full of knowledge, memorizing, observing, but this year, the year she would earn the title of doctor, she set one simple, powerful task for herself: do the right thing.

One of the things she liked about working in the ER was the element of surprise. You never knew what was coming through the door next. Her parents had been appalled when she’d informed them of her interest in the ER. They had been pushing her toward pediatric surgery, and they expected her to explore something closer to that field. But for once, she had dared to inch a little to the left of their proposed path. She wanted more experience in emergency medicine. And Mercy Heights had a level-one trauma center, the best in Philadelphia.

Patients, family members, and personnel were clustered around the admittance center, the nucleus of the ER. As she scanned the area for Mel, a nurse stuck her head out of an exam room.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she said. “We need someone who speaks Spanish. We’ve got a one-woman shitstorm.”

Reese hurried into the small room. “What have you got—oh.” For a second, she just stood there, trying to take in the scene. The patient was a young dark-haired woman in a stained dress, crouched on the bed, her posture defensive and her eyes cloudy with fear and distrust. Someone was asking her what she took, when she took it, but she recoiled from the questions.

“They found her wandering on the street,” said the nurse. “All we know so far is that she’s pregnant. And probably altered. She told the EMTs she was intoxicated. We’re trying to find out what she took.”

A security guard stood ready, restraints in hand. Mel shook his head. Reese knew he feared things would escalate if they tried to restrain her.

“This is not a place of healing,” the woman said in rapid-fire Spanish. “This is a place of death, a place of eternal curses.” Then she lapsed into a muttered prayer.

Reese’s Spanish kicked in. She spoke the colloquial version she’d learned from Juanita, her childhood nanny. Growing up, she’d spent more time with Juanita than she had with her busy, ubersuccessful parents. Putting on a warm, professional smile, she slowly walked toward the woman. “Hola, señora,” she said softly. “¿Qué pasa?”

At the sound of her native tongue, the woman stopped speaking and glared at Reese. “I’m Reese Powell,” Reese continued in Spanish, never losing eye contact. “My colleagues and I would like to examine you, and make sure you’re all right.”

“Get away from me. These are bad people.”

“We want to help you,” Reese said. “Do you understand English?”

“No. No English.”

“Please, may I ask you some questions?”

“My secrets are mine to keep.”

“Sometimes it is best to share a secret. Is this your first baby?”

“Yes.” The woman unfurled a little, dropping her arms from her drawn-up knees.

“What is your name, ma’am?”

“My name is Lena Garza.”

“How old are you, Lena?”

She hesitated. “Nineteen.”

“Ask her what she took,” someone said. “We heard her say she’s intoxicated.”

Reese studied the drawn, olive-toned face. The girl looked older than nineteen, her deep brown eyes haunted and scared.

“You were wandering around in traffic,” Reese said, rapidly translating for one of the EMTs. “Why were you doing that? Did you take something?” She had been taught to practice empathy—direct eye contact, a physical touch—and at first, reaching out to a stranger in this way had felt strange to her. Now that she’d been at it for a while, the gestures felt natural. It was gratifying to see the woman relax slightly, taking a deep breath before she spoke.

Lena Garza twisted the band of silver she wore on her forefinger. “Estoy intoxicada.”

“Ask her what—”

“Wait,” Reese said. “Intoxicada just means that she ingested something. Could be food, a drug, anything that makes a person sick.” She turned to Lena. “Can you tell me what you took?”

“My mother told me I will burn in hell,” she whispered. “I am not married. That is why I took the herbs.”

Reese’s heart skipped a beat. “She took something,” she told Mel in English. “What did you take, Lena?”

The girl reached into the pocket of her faded dress and drew out a crinkly cellophane bag. “She said this would cause my period to start.”

Reese grabbed the bag and showed it to Mel. “Angelica. Said to have abortifacient properties.”

Mel sniffed the yellowish-brown herb. “Also called dong quai. When did she take it? Was it within the last four hours? How much did she take?”

Reese asked the patient.

“I don’t remember. I will burn in hell,” she moaned.

“Only if you die,” Reese said in Spanish. “And we are not going to let that happen, not today.”

Mel said, “We’re going to need a gastric lavage, stat.”

While the techs prepared the lavage tray and measured activated charcoal into a beaker, Reese coaxed a bit more information from the patient—When did she have her last period? Had she seen a doctor? Where did she live?

Reese reported the answers, then convinced the woman to lie back and be connected to monitors. “I’m going to have a listen to your baby, all right?” She gently lifted the dress and slid the gel-slicked Doppler wand over Lena’s flat belly, trying to detect heart sounds.

“Ay!” the patient yelled. “That is cold. You torture me.”

“I’m sorry,” Reese said. “We need you to be still and be quiet. We’re trying to hear your baby’s heart sounds … There it is,” she said as the Doppler emitted a rhythmic wow-wow-wow. “That’s the sound of your baby’s heart.”

Lena went limp on the table and laid her forearm over her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I hear it. I can hear it. My mother says it’s a sin to have a baby before I’m married.”

Reese let the moment stretch out a few seconds longer. Then she said, “Mothers aren’t always right about everything.” She offered a brief conspiratorial smile. “Mine thinks she is, though. Let us take care of you, and when you’re feeling better, someone will talk to you about your options.”

She explained the lavage process and convinced the girl to cooperate by swallowing the gastric tube. The girl gagged and fought, but Reese kept up a soothing patter, the way Juanita used to when Reese was small and scared of the dark.

A short time later, Lena’s eyes were closed, and her hands lay slack on the sheeting. Mel gestured, and Reese followed him out to the corridor. “You did a good job in there,” he said. “She’ll be ready to turf out before you know it.”

Reese thought about the disturbed young woman, her frightened eyes and the strange, deep knowing that lived in her like an old, old soul. “Before you turf her, let’s get someone to talk to her about her choices. I’ll be the interpreter.”

“That’s a great idea,” Mel said. “I’ll call social services and OB/GYN.”

Moments like this gave Reese a feeling of satisfaction. An overachieving fourth-year at the end of a long rat race, she was full of plans, but full of questions, too. Her parents had their own plan for her—acceptance into an elite residency program, a path to join their carefully built practice. But sometimes, the wall of her armor cracked open to reveal a glimpse of something else—another dream, maybe. A different dream, not her parents’ goals.

At the end of the hallway, the double doors burst open and Jack Tillis, the chief of trauma, swept through. His lab coat wafted open like a set of wings. He was surrounded by his team of devoted acolytes—the residents, nurses, support staff, and technicians who made up the trauma team.

“What’ve you got?” Mel asked, perking up.

“Just had a red phone pre-alert. Major trauma, coming in by life flight,” another resident said. “ETA twenty minutes.”

Reese exchanged a glance with Mel. She felt a twist of anticipation in her gut. “Can I help?”

The resident nodded. “You don’t want to miss this one. Some kid had his arm ripped off in a farming accident.”

The helicopter descended from the sky like a huge metallic insect, its giant rotors beating the cornstalks flat against the dusty field. Kneeling on ground soaked by his nephew’s blood, Caleb instinctively leaned forward over the boy’s body, which lay on the rescue workers’ shiny yellow board. The shadows of his neighbors and the rescue workers fell over him, blocking out the morning sun. Above the violent rhythm of the chopper blades, he could hear crackling radios and shouts, but all his attention stayed focused on Jonah.

Only a short time earlier, Jonah had been racing across the field to help fill silo, something he had done dozens of times before. Now he lay broken and bleeding, his left arm and his boyish face slashed by the vicious metal teeth of the shredder. And despite the injuries, Jonah was sweetly, horrifyingly conscious.

White-faced, blue-lipped, his eyes dull with shock as his life drained away, the boy tried to speak through chattering teeth. “Cold,” he kept saying. “I’m ssso … cold.”

“I’m here, little man,” Caleb said, his voice a rasp of panic. “I’ll keep you warm.”

The rescue workers had immobilized the arm with an air bladder and enclosed his neck in a stiff collar. They covered him with every blanket they had, but it wasn’t enough to keep Jonah from shivering like a leaf in the wind. Then they prepared to load the stretcher into the helicopter.

“You cannot take him in that … that thing.” Caleb’s father stepped forward, thumping his hickory cane on the ground. “I won’t allow it.”

From the moment the county rescue crew had declared that Jonah’s only hope of survival was to be airlifted to a trauma center in Philadelphia, there had been a division in the community. Dr. Mose Shrock, who supervised the emergency services of the local hospital, had been contacted by phone. He’d confirmed the rescuers’ plan, and Caleb had approved the transport without hesitation.

Now his face felt carved in stone as he glared at his father. “They’re taking him,” he said simply. “I’ ll allow it.”

“Sir, you’ll have to step aside,” a man shouted, jostling in front of Asa. “We’re going to load him hot, while the chopper’s still going.”

“These people will take care of you,” Caleb said to his nephew, climbing to his feet. “I love you, Jonah, don’t ever forget I love you.”

“Uncle Caleb, don’t leave me.”

Despite the noise of the beating rotors, Caleb heard his nephew’s faint plea, piercing his heart.

The nurses and paramedics of the life flight lifted the board as the pilot did a walk around the helicopter, checking the landing area. Jonah was lost amid a pile of blankets and gear. His blood stained the ground everywhere.

“I’m going with him,” Caleb said loudly. “I have to go with him.”

A nurse in a utility vest looked at him, then over at Jonah.

“Please,” Caleb said. “He’s just a little boy.”

“It’s the pilot’s call. I’ll see what she says about the fly-along.”

Caleb turned and found himself face-to-face with his father. Asa held his hat clapped on his head to keep it from being blown away by the rotors. His straight-cut coat and broadfall trousers flapped in the wind. He stood flanked by the neighbors, forming a somber wall of fear and disapproval.

The last thing on Caleb’s mind was Amish Ordnung. Clearly it was uppermost in the minds of his father and the elders.

“If it’s God’s will that the boy is to survive,” Asa stated, “then he will do so without being lifted into the sky.”

Caleb didn’t trust God’s will, and he hadn’t in a long time. But he didn’t argue with his father. He hadn’t done that in a long time either.

Hannah rushed to his side. Her face was pale gray and awash with tears. “You have to go, Uncle Caleb. You have to.”

Alma Troyer stepped forward, her mouth set in a firm line. She cut a quick glance from Asa to Hannah. “You go, Caleb. I’ll keep Hannah with me while you’re away.”

The flight nurse touched his arm. “You’re in. The pilot said you can come.”

Caleb nodded and turned to his father. “I’ll call.” The Amish families shared a phone box in the middle of the village, its use limited to necessary business and emergencies. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and followed one of the EMS technicians to the chopper.

In a tangle of tubes and monitors, Jonah was being loaded into the side bay of the shiny blue helicopter. “Whoa, you’re a tall one. Keep your head low,” a technician cautioned Caleb, pointing upward. “Stay to the front and left of the chopper.”

Hardwired to her radio equipment, the pilot glanced at Caleb. “You’re a big fella,” she yelled. “What do you weigh?”

Caleb never weighed himself. “Two hundred pounds,” he estimated, aware of the broad blade swinging overhead. He was nineteen hands tall, judging by the draft horses he worked with. Well over six feet. He was definitely at risk of having his head lopped off by the rotating blade.

“Our weight limit’s two-twenty,” the pilot said. “Let’s do it.”

The technician kept his hand on Caleb’s shoulder and guided him aboard. Someone tossed his hat to him. They showed him where to sit and how to strap himself in. In the cramped space, he was close enough to Jonah to reach the boy, but he couldn’t figure out a place to touch. He rested his hand somewhere—the kid’s foot. Even through layers of thermal blankets, it was cold as ice.

“Jonah,” he said, “I’m with you. Hear me? I’m coming with you.”

He was given a set of headphones with spongy earpieces. Radios crackled and screeched. Monitoring equipment beeped, straps and clamps were locked into place. A mask was put over Jonah’s nose and mouth, and one of the workers squeezed an air bag at regular intervals. In minutes, the doors were pulled shut. The pilot rattled off a series of orders, simultaneously checking things in the cockpit and snapping a series of switches and levers. With a roar of increasing power, the chopper lifted straight off the ground.

Caleb’s stomach dropped, and the breath left his lungs. Through a rounded glass opening, he saw the people gathered near the landing site. Neighbors and friends, his father still holding his hat to his head, growing smaller and smaller as the copter ascended into the sky. They looked like a black-and-gray cloud against the golden fields. Hannah lay crumpled on the ground, her skirts surrounding her like an inkblot. Someone should go to her, put a hand on her shoulder to reassure the girl. But no one did.

The helicopter passed the silo in the blink of an eye, but in one glimpse Caleb could see the conveyor slanting up to the opening, the shredding machine positioned at the top. And on the ground, on the green-and-brown earth where the farm had stood for generations, he saw the livid stain of his nephew’s blood, oddly in the shape of a broken star.

The helicopter nurse was yelling information into a radio, most of which Caleb barely understood. Jonah’s BP and respiration, absent pulses distal to the injury site, other things spoken in code so rapidly he couldn’t follow. He did catch one word, though, loud and clear.

Incomplete transhumeral amputation.

Amputation.

The helicopter lurched and careened to one side. Caleb pressed his hand against the hull to steady himself, and his stomach roiled. Another feeling pushed through his terror for Jonah, a feeling so powerful that it made him ashamed. Because in the middle of this devastating trauma, he felt an undeniable thrill. He was up in the air, hovering above the earth, flying.

All his life he had tried to imagine what it was like to fly, and now he was doing it. So far, the experience was more amazing and more terrible than he’d ever thought it would be. The land lay in squares made of different hues of green and yellow and brown, stitched together by pathways and irrigation ditches. Shady Creek was a slick silver ribbon fringed by bunches of trees. There were toy houses connected by walkways and white picket fences, a skinny single-lane road with a canvas-topped buggy creeping along behind a horse. Caleb could tell it was the Zooks’ Shire, even from the sky. He knew practically every horse in Middle Grove.

The chopper moved so fast that the view changed every few seconds, sweeping over the Poconos. The nurse finished punching buttons on some piece of equipment. “Sir,” she said to Caleb, “I need to ask you some questions about your son.” Her voice sounded tinny and distant through the headphones.

No time to explain that Jonah wasn’t his son.

“Yeah, sure.” At her prompting, he reported Jonah’s name, his age, the fact that he didn’t suffer from any allergies Caleb knew of. She wanted to understand the nature of the accident and he did his best to explain how the equipment worked, how the blades shredded the corn and blew it into the silo, how sometimes a piece got fouled up and needed an extra push with the next stalk in line. From the look on the woman’s face, he could tell his explanation was as incomprehensible to her as her medical jargon was to him. Another thing he could see on her face was the real question, the one she would not ask.

How could you let a child work around such dangerous equipment?

Caleb couldn’t even answer that for himself. It was the way things had always been done on the farm. From the time they learned to walk, kids helped out. The tiniest ones fed chickens and ducks, weeded the garden, picked tomatoes and beans. When a boy got older, he helped with plow and harrow, the hay baler, sheaves, fetching and carrying from the milk house, anything that needed doing. It was the Amish way. And the Amish way was to never question tradition.

He tried to check on his nephew, but there was little of Jonah to see amid the tangle of tubes and wires and the guy squeezing the big plastic bulb into the boy’s nose and mouth. The chopper veered again, and the landscape quickly changed. Philadelphia was a bristling maze of steel and concrete giants arranged along the wide river and other waterways. The city had its own kind of strange beauty, made up of crazy angles and busy roads. Atop one of the buildings, a series of markings seemed to pull the chopper from the sky like a magnet.

“They’re going to do a hot unload,” the nurse explained. “They’ll get him out even before the chopper stops. You just wait until it stops, and the pilot will tell you when it’s safe to get out.”

“Got it.” Caleb was startled when he looked down and saw that his hat was still clutched in his bloody hand.

His other hand lay on the blanket covering Jonah’s bony bare foot. Please, Jonah, he said without speaking. Don’t die on me.

The Amish never prayed aloud except at meeting. They were a people of long, meditative silences that made folks think they were slow-witted. Caleb begged, with wordless contemplation, for mercy for his nephew.

He’s only a little boy. He sings to the ducks when he feeds them in the morning. He sleeps with his dog at the foot of his bed. Every time he smiles, the sun comes out. His laughter reminds me that life is beautiful. I can’t lose him. I can’t. Not my Jonah-boy.

Caleb was praying for the first time in years. But for him, prayer had always been like shouting down a well. Your own words were echoed back at you. Only the truly faithful believed someone was actually there on the other end, listening.

3

In Philly, traumas were plentiful and Reese had attended her share. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, and automobile wrecks accounted for most of them. But every once in a while, something new and unexpected came through the heavy doors of the trauma bay—a guy crushed in a logrolling contest. A window washer who had fallen from a scaffold. A skydiver whose chute hadn’t opened properly in midair and who had hit the ground at seventy-five miles per hour.

The dramatic, over-the-top traumas had a peculiar effect on the team. Everyone felt the sting of the razor’s edge, reminding them that anyone could be a hair’s breadth from death. The sole purpose of the team was to reel the victim back from tragedy.

According to the advance reports coming from the life flight crew, this boy, too, balanced on the edge. On the one hand, he was young and strong and in a good general health. But on the other, he had suffered a devastating injury and had lost a lot of blood. If the shock didn’t kill him, sepsis or secondary injuries could.

“They’re bringing him down now,” the lead trauma nurse reported.

“Get ready, people,” Jack added. The trauma chief worked the team like a drill sergeant, preparing the high-tech bay with painstaking attention to detail—airway, IV, monitoring equipment, essential personnel, lab and radiology backup. With everything in readiness, the area resembled the inside of a strange, futuristic cathedral, the bed in the center like an altar where victims were brought forth to appease a pantheon of wrathful gods.

The last moments were silent, team members’ minds weighted by the tension of expectation while their bodies were physically weighted by the heavy purple X-ray vests. Everyone was alone with their thoughts—the team leader, primary physician, airway team, nurses and patient care techs, radiology tech, CT, pharmacy, recorder, support staff, chaplain. Reese imagined that some were praying. She herself clung to her mantra: do right.

The team members stood poised in their designated positions. Reese felt a surge of adrenaline course through her, starting in her chest and spreading like a drug through her neck and shoulders, arms and legs. She understood the physiology of the human body, but no textbook could adequately describe certain things—the heady rush of anticipation, for one thing.

Stone-cold fear, for another.

During this rotation, she was learning that in a trauma situation, there was almost no time to think. Though her head was crammed with facts and procedures, she shut down everything except that which would help the patient. In a trauma, she didn’t feel hunger or fatigue or even the need for the bathroom. She got so focused that she didn’t even feel emotion, which worried her.

Mel said it was a good thing. When a patient was coded, the doctor needed cold algorithms, not empathy. He’d told her to consider a residency in trauma, but she had dismissed the suggestion. That wasn’t where she was headed.

But in moments like this, she caught herself reconsidering.

“Keep an eye on Jack,” Mel murmured in her ear. “Watch and learn. He is the maestro.”

Reese nodded. There were a few more moments of breath-held anticipation, tingling with the awareness that everything was about to change. Then the wire mesh doors exploded open with a loud thud, and the patient arrived.

“Coming through,” someone said, walking backward and pulling the gurney along a hallway marked with a red line on the floor and the words All Trauma. “Clear a path.” More paramedics ran with the stretcher between them, preparing for the transition into the trauma bay. Reese craned her neck but couldn’t see the boy amid the cluster of personnel and equipment—just an oversize C-collar and two vacuum-splints painted with fresh blood.

Behind the stretcher was a man so large he dwarfed everyone else. His shirt and hands were covered in blood. Beneath a dramatic wave of golden blond hair, his expression was a mask of agonized worry—a guy facing every parent’s worst nightmare.

The stretcher was angled into the middle of the trauma bay and the team went to work.

“How’s he holding up?” Jack asked, positioning himself at the foot of the bed.

“Not so hot.” Irene, the life flight nurse, stepped back from the rig, consulted dual tablets, and gave a swift MIVT report—mechanism, injuries, vitals, treatment. She stated that the boy had been given blood agents to lower the risk of hemorrhage. Monitors beeped and screeched off-key as the patient was transferred to the X-ray table. In the corner, a server’s lights flashed green and gold.

Reese tried to make out his features with the clear mask cupped over his nose and mouth. Deep lacerations slashed one cheek, as though he’d been clawed by a huge bear. His eyes were blue, darting from side to side.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “He’s conscious.”

“Been that way since it happened,” Irene said. “You’re an amazing guy, Jonah. You’re doing great.”

“I’m Dr. Tillis,” Jack said, looking straight down into the kid’s face. “We’re going to take good care of you.”

The boy’s lips moved inside the mask, fogging the plastic. He wasn’t crying. Reese suspected that shock had pushed him well past that point.

“Right,” said Jack. “Let’s have a look at that arm.”

The field dressing was removed and the arm exposed, and even the seasoned members of the team gaped in awe at the injury. It was a ragged horror of a wound, the tissue and bone and bloody dressing so tortured that it hurt just to look at it.

He never even lost consciousness, Reese thought. What the hell kind of kid was this?

“Jonah, can you move the fingers of your left hand, buddy?” asked Dr. Tillis.

The hand lay unresponsive.

“How about a thumbs-up or an okay sign,” Tillis suggested. “Can you do that?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed in pained concentration, but there was still no response. Everything had been shredded or severed. “Completely ablated,” someone nearby murmured. “Oh, man …”

“Get in here, Powell,” said Dr. Tillis. “Move in closer. This is something you don’t see every day. Let’s have you remove the lower-extremity clothing and do the blood draw.”

Most of the kid’s clothes had already been removed, cut or ripped off by the EMTs, or maybe in the accident. His skinny chest and pelvis looked as pale as marble. He wore jockey shorts, plain white turned gray from laundering, which she scissored away, looking for further injuries to report to the lead doctor. “No sign of bruising or trauma to the pelvis,” she said.

Then she prepped the site with Betadine and palpated the femoral artery with her fingers. “You’ll feel a pinch, Jonah,” she said, then felt ridiculous warning him about a pinch while his arm was hanging in shreds. She inserted the needle at a right angle. The slender curl of tubing filled with bright red blood, filling the syringe. While another student applied pressure to the site, Reese carefully labeled the blood draw and handed it off to a lab tech.

Jack rapped out orders for further assessments and pain management along with X-rays, piles of warm blankets, a Foley for urinalysis. Reese had a powerful urge to touch the boy—somewhere, somehow—but focused instead on following instructions. IVs were connected, and the surge of fluids and drugs worked quickly. Reese wasn’t sure whether or not she imagined it, but she thought the boy looked directly at her as she leaned forward to check a line and a monitor. Then his eyes fluttered closed. She wished she’d touched him.

The work of prepping Jonah Stoltz for surgery was done swiftly, each member of the team playing a part. They debrided and dressed wounds, scanned and tested the slender, broken boy, stabilizing him as best they could and seeking secondary injuries. Three floors up, the surgeons of the OR scrub team were already gearing up for the most likely outcome—amputation. The mobile bed was pushed out into the gleaming stainless-steel maw of the elevator.

With a rubbery squeak, the doors whisked shut and silence filled the trauma bay again. In a vacuum of silence, the adrenaline rush subsided.

People in the emergency department, and especially members of the trauma team, had a brief but vital relationship with the patient. It was like a missed encounter on a bus—they had minimal details about what preceded the trauma, an intense flurry of total focus and attention, during which the patient was the center of their universe. And then, once the patient was rushed off to surgery, everyone moved on. There was no closure. They glimpsed a single page from the narrative, never the whole story.

The room emptied quickly. The once pristine suite now resembled a bloody field in the aftermath of battle. Orderlies appeared to clear the area. Reese glanced around the room. She spotted something on the floor—an elongated penny that had been flattened on a train track, or maybe in one of those machines. The words Old Blakeslee Sawmill had been pressed into the copper.

She slipped it into the pocket of her lab coat. Then she went out to the garden adjacent to the emergency department, where there was an outdoor seating area favored by the staff. From here she could see the river, its banks flanked by long green swaths of parkland populated by kids playing Frisbee and shooting hoops, people lying on the grass in the sunshine, strolling tourists and cyclists rolling by.

She thought of the boy being rushed to surgery, and a shiver passed over her. At the far end of the garden, one of the trauma nurses stood alone, smoking a cigarette and staring into space as she blew a thin stream of smoke into the warm, unmoving air. Reese didn’t judge her for the habit, nor did she remind her of the property’s ban on smoking. After a major trauma, everyone involved seemed to deal with it in their own way. Some were chatty, expending the excess adrenaline in conversation, while others stayed quiet, floating in some placid reflection pond in their mind until balance returned.

Reese was still discovering what sort of trauma team member she was, but this rotation would probably end before she figured it out. She stood mulling over the incident, putting it into the context of her long-term plan.

For as long as she could remember, she had been focused on this career. She didn’t even recall choosing it. Perhaps it had chosen her, or more accurately, it had been chosen for her. Sometimes she felt like a stranger in her own life, like Rip Van Winkle waking up twenty years in the future. She blinked and looked around, wondering, How the hell did I get here?

On paper, the journey was as clear as a road map. Her parents were physicians, hugely successful in their fields of infertility and neonatology. Her father had an endowed chair at Penn. Hector and Joanna Powell were known for their groundbreaking work. Reese was their most successful experiment of all. She had been a test-tube baby, the result of her parents’ in vitro fertilization. She owed her very existence to their efforts and expertise.

It wasn’t anything she thought about too often, but every once in a while it made her feel … different. On the one hand, she knew she had been so desperately wanted that her parents had gone through an amazing medical ordeal to bring her into the world. On the other hand, the idea of having started life in a petri dish was downright strange.

Her parents had sent her to the best schools in the country, financed by their work for other infertile couples. That she would be a doctor was a foregone conclusion. There was never any other decision to be made. After completing her BS in premed, she went straight into the MD program and was now aimed like a straight arrow toward a career in pediatric surgery, the perfect complement to her parents’ practice. A five-year surgical residency followed by two years of peds surgery would bring her into the fold.

Sometimes thinking about the journey ahead gave her a migraine.

Mel came outside, his affable, slightly disheveled presence a welcome interruption. He was a good doctor and a good teacher, and he was happily married, for which she was grateful. No danger of come-ons or late-night gropings in the on-call room, something she’d dealt with far too often in medical school.

“So what did you think of that?” he asked. “Pretty intense, huh?”

“Yes. That team is incredible.” She shook her head. “Poor kid. His life will never be the same.”

“The flight nurse said he’s an Amish kid.”

She frowned, digesting the info as she pictured horse-drawn buggies, bonnets, barefoot children. “No shit. So how did he get mangled by a piece of machinery? I thought the Amish did everything by hand.”

He shrugged. “I guess not everything. But the nurse said some of the neighbors and family made a big stink about the chopper. They didn’t want him to fly. It broke one of their rules.”

“I’m glad the father went ahead and broke the rules, then. Is that why the media showed up?” She gestured at the parking lot. News vans from the local affiliates had already disgorged cables, gear, and primped on-air reporters. This was what was known in the hospital as a “drama trauma”—an unusual and often tragic event that drew the local press and created a storm on social media.

“Probably,” said Mel. “A hospital spokesman will handle it.”

“Good. The last thing the family needs is the local news hounding them.” She glanced through the broad windows into the building. In the ER consultation rooms and waiting area, people huddled in worried clumps or paced the floor. A tall blond man, as upright and still as a tree on a windless day, stood looking outside, his face seemingly carved in stone.

Reese frowned. “Isn’t that the father?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Why isn’t he up in surgery?”

Mel shrugged again. “Maybe nobody told him.”

Reese felt a hitch of irritation. A big hospital was a wonder in many ways. But sometimes things slipped through the cracks. “Damn. I’ll go tell him where the surgery waiting area is,” she said.

Mel nodded, and she went back into the building. The boy’s father looked wildly out of place in the high-tech trauma center, with his pinned-on dark clothes and a flat-brimmed hat clutched in his hands. There were smears of blood on his shirt and hands and boots. This man had set aside his principles to save the boy, but clearly at a cost, for he looked miserable.

She felt a well of sympathy for the guy. Thanks to her parents’ profession, the hospital had always been a familiar environment, the place where they worked. For most people, it was an alien world—and not a friendly one.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Jonah Stoltz’s father?”

The man turned. This one didn’t have the big U-shaped beard she associated with Amish men. Blond guys always seemed to look younger than they actually were, and special, somehow, a breed apart. He had the same clear blue eyes as the boy. His mouth was set in a grim line of suppressed fear.

“I’m Caleb Stoltz,” he said in a rich, slow voice. “Jonah’s uncle.”

“My name is Reese Powell.” The guy inspired a welling of sympathy within her, perhaps because he seemed so alone. “Will his parents be coming soon?”

“His parents are dead.” The blunt words fell into the silence between them.

“Oh … I didn’t realize,” she said, the warmth in her throat turning into an ache. She wondered if some awful farm accident had taken them. Were such things common in an Amish community?

“I’m raising Jonah now.” He focused briefly on her name and school embroidered on her lab coat. “Is there news? How is he?”

“Mr. Stoltz,” she said, “has someone given you a report on Jonah’s progress? Has a social worker talked to you?”

“They said he needed surgery. I already signed the papers.”

Hadn’t anyone bothered to explain things to this man? Reese’s irritation returned. “The trauma team stabilized him, and he was taken up to the surgical unit. It’s in a different part of the hospital. If you like, I’ll show you to the waiting area.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I’ll wait there for as long as necessary.” As he spoke, she noticed two things about him. He maintained a curious stillness in the way he held himself. And when he looked at her, his gaze was rock steady, never wavering.

She walked with him to the elevator. People glanced at him and some did a double take, noting his height, his bloodied clothes, the hat of woven straw he held in his large hand. He was wildly out of place here. But then, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be out of place in an emergency ward.

She pressed the button for the elevator and a moment later the doors cranked open. She thought he might hesitate before stepping inside, but he didn’t. She pushed the fourth-floor button and the car glided upward.

At a loss for words, she cast a surreptitious glance at him. He had put his hand against the wall as if to steady himself, and his gaze focused on the lighted buttons. She knew very little about the Amish, but their clothes were distinctive—flat-front trousers, a plain shirt with rolled-back sleeves, suspenders, a brimmed hat, and work boots.

Reese felt something she didn’t recognize. Surprise, maybe, and a funny warm sense of compassion. He was absolutely striking. He had a face she knew she would never forget, as perfectly made as a sculptor’s masterpiece, with square jaw, high cheekbones, piercing eyes.

He caught her staring, and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “My colleague told me you’re Amish.”

“That’s right.”

Amish. What did she know about the Amish? Quilts and bonnets, the Plain people. “Where do you live? Over in Lancaster County?” The area was known for its Amish population. People from the city took weekend trips to poke around the markets and craft shows there, to sample the homemade goods and stay in cozy inns. Reese had never visited. Her spare time was mostly devoted to studying or networking with people her parents thought she should meet. Every once in a blue moon, she found time to go on a date.

She’d read somewhere that a blue moon occurred twice a year.

That was about right.

He shook his head. “Not Lancaster. We live north of here and a little west, in a place called Middle Grove.”

“So, um, the flight nurse said you came in the helicopter,” she ventured. “Was that your first time to fly?”

“It was. The Amish have rules against flying in the air,” he said. “I understand that. But I have rules against a little boy bleeding to death.”

Reese winced at the anguish she heard in his voice. “I’m sure everyone would agree you made the best choice for Jonah.”

“I’m not sure of that at all,” he said, sending her a dour look.

The conversation was going brilliantly, thought Reese. Well, she had better things to do than make small talk with this guy. When the elevator whispered to a stop at the fourth floor, she led him past the nursing station and to the waiting lounge, furnished with green sofas, low tables, hopelessly dog-eared magazines and books. A large monitor displayed coded updates of the ongoing procedures.

“You can have a seat here,” she said. “I’ll let them know at the nursing station that you’re here for Jonah.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He made no move to sit down.

“Well,” she said, backing awkwardly away. “I know they will take excellent care of Jonah. The surgeons here are the best in the country.”

He sent her a curt nod. She couldn’t blame him for being skeptical of such a common platitude. Ask anyone at any hospital, and the likely answer was that this was the best in the country, and the patient was in good hands.

She hurried to the nursing station. The three nurses present were lined up at the counter, all staring drop-jawed at Caleb Stoltz. Under different circumstances, Reese would have laughed at their transparent lust.

“That man is—”

“—grade-A eye candy,” said one of the nurses.

“Mr. Stoltz,” she said, lowering her voice. “Caleb. He’s the uncle and legal guardian of Jonah Stoltz.”

One nurse, whose name tag read ALICE, glanced at a monitor. “The boy is in OR seven.” She gave Reese a dismissive glance. Med students were distinguished by their short white coats and afforded no special privileges.

“So somebody keep him filled in, okay? I found him still waiting around in the ER, lost. Show him how to track his nephew on the big monitor board.”

“Will do.”

She turned quickly to head back to the elevator and nearly collided with Caleb Stoltz. He was so close that she caught his scent of sweat and blood and sunshine, and the intensity of it flustered her.

“Um, the staff here can answer any—”

“I want to give blood,” he said quietly. “For Jonah, in case he needs it.”

They had already given him many units in trauma. The attending had declared him stable, but anything could happen in surgery. She glanced at the nurses, each of whom sent her an I’m busy look.

“I can show you to the blood bank,” she offered.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d appreciate that.”

On the way back to the elevator, she hesitated. “Wait here a moment. I’ll get you some clean clothes to put on.”

She went to a supply room and found a set of scrubs, size extra large.

“You can wear these for now,” she said, gesturing toward the men’s room. “Put your clothes in this bag.”

He hesitated. Then he stared down at the hopelessly soiled shirt and pants. “I reckon I look like I just slaughtered a pig.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but you’ll be more comfortable in these.”

While he was changing, she checked her messages. A reminder about dinner tonight with her parents. Study group at nine—Step Two of the medical licensing exam was right around the corner, a test of her medical knowledge and diagnostic and clinical skills. If the ER stayed quiet, she might be able to grab a quick nap in the on-call room.

Caleb emerged from the men’s room. In the borrowed scrubs, he looked only slightly less like a fish out of water. She took the plastic bag marked Patient Belongings, which contained his bloodstained clothes. “I’ll have these cleaned for you.” The offer just popped out of her, as if she were his valet. It would be a kindness, though, she told herself. Given what was happening to his nephew, he had more important things to deal with.

So do you, said an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother.

She led the way through the winding hallways to the blood bank and introduced him to the technician there. “This is Mr. Stoltz,” she said. “His nephew is in surgery and he wants to give blood.”

“As much as you’re allowed,” Caleb said. “My blood type is O negative.”

She was surprised he knew. Most people didn’t know their blood type.

“You’re a universal donor. Excellent,” said the technician, a laid-back type named Klaus with a ponytail and a small hoop earring. “Right this way, Mr. Stoltz.”

He was calm and compliant as he took a seat in a one-armed lounge chair.

Klaus handed him a clipboard. “Some standard screening questions.”

Reese’s phone vibrated with a message from Mel: Get yr ass back down here and detox this drunk pls.

Lovely. “I have to go,” she said. “Can you find your way back to the surgical waiting area?”

“I can, yes.”

She wished she could stay with him. Or at least say something comforting. He looked so lost and confused and scared. “Uh, okay. I wish you and Jonah the best.” Lame. So fricking lame. The best what? The best outcome of an amputation? The best way to deal with a little boy who now had to go through life with one arm? She tried to think of something more to say, but nothing came to mind, no words of comfort or reassurance.

He didn’t reply, simply nodded and started filling out the screening form.

And with that, their association ended. It was the way things worked in the emergency department—once the emergency had been passed on to the next team, the patient and his family were history. The residents and attendings who worked in the department liked that aspect of the job. Sometimes Reese wasn’t so sure. Sometimes she wanted the story to continue.

As she stood in the elevator, she looked down at her hand and realized she was holding the bag with Caleb’s soiled clothes. And she’d never been so pleased to be stuck with someone else’s dirty laundry.

4

“C’mon with me, baby. I’ll drive you all the way to heaven,” roared the drunk, clinging to Reese’s hand. “You’re one red-hot babe, that’s just what you are.”

Reese breathed in the scent of Mastisol. She’d popped an ampule and put a few drops on her surgical mask as an odor blocker, a trick she’d learned from a helpful floor nurse. “You’ll be fine, Mr. James. Get some rest. Here are your discharge instructions. The program we talked about can work, but you have to show up. I’ll make sure you have a ride later.”

He serenaded her with “Ride Sally Ride” while she washed at the sink.

“You’re good with him,” commented the nurse who had assisted her. “He’s not everyone’s fave.”

“And his vomit looks so attractive on me.” Reese peeled off the mask, gloves, and disposable paper gown and added them to the waste bin. Actually, she didn’t hate the ER, even in moments like this. She didn’t even hate treating patients like Mr. James—frequent fliers who had a way of drawing compassion from her even as they destroyed themselves. Perversely, she found herself nurturing the hope that a guy like that might actually get clean one day. There were things she loved about primary care, and sometimes she couldn’t help comparing those moments to tedious hours in surgery—a rotation she secretly did not love.

She hurried away to the staff room and went to her locker. Inside was a jumble of textbooks, binders and clipboards crammed with notes, a tangle of charging cords, a makeup bag, and a change of clothes. She glanced at herself in the small mirror on the back of the door. Her dark, short hair lay in random wisps around her face, and the ever-present bruised circles under her eyes marked her as someone who had been on call for too many hours. Shit. She wished she had time to go home and shower before dinner—her parents were meeting her at Urban Farmer, one of the city’s best restaurants. But as usual, she was running late and would have to make do with a quick once-over in the ladies’ room.

There, she fluffed out her hair and applied makeup so old she couldn’t even remember buying it. She wadded up her lab coat, now soiled from her encounter with Mr. James, and added it to the bag with Caleb’s clothing. Something pinged on the tile floor—the coin she’d found in the trauma room.

With a quick motion, she stuck it in her pocket, smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, then faced the mirror and took a deep breath. She wondered if other people got nervous at the prospect of having dinner with their parents. She wondered if others felt the burden of family expectations pressing like a weight on their chests. It’s just dinner, she told herself.

Except with Hector and Joanna Powell, it was never just dinner. Tonight’s elegant meal at the trendy spot was more than that. They wanted to discuss her prospects for several elite residency program matches. The stakes were sky high, and her parents wanted to make sure she landed right where they were aiming her. She couldn’t remember if they’d ever asked her whether she was on board with the plan.

On her way out, she encountered Mel and his young son greeting each other in the foyer. With a grin of delight, Mel offered the kid a high five, their hands slapping together in friendly fashion.

“Look who got sprung from day care,” Reese said. “How was your day, Frankie?”

“Good,” said the little boy. He was four years old and adorable in his Phillies T-shirt—as if there was any other way for a four-year-old to be. “I fed the hamster. It was my turn.”

“Cool. What do hamsters eat?”

“Carrots and alfalfa kibbles.”

“Yum. And I’m impressed that you know the word ‘alfalfa.’” They walked outside together. The air was gritty from the heat of the day, and redolent of exhaust from the traffic surging along the boulevard between the hospital and the river.

“Big plans for the night?” she asked.

“The biggest,” said Mel. “Backyard wiener roast.”

“Yay!” Frankie danced a little jig.

Reese said goodbye and went into the laundry service she always used. She dropped off her lab coat along with Caleb Stoltz’s clothes, asking for a rush job. Outside again, she hesitated. Stuck her hand into her skirt pocket. Her fingers brushed the little token she’d picked up in the trauma room. She took it out, turned it over in her hand. Blakeslee Sawmill. It probably belonged to Jonah Stoltz. The image of a precision saw popped into her mind. She’d never observed an amputation. Christ, that poor little kid.

On impulse, she went back into the hospital and pressed the elevator button.

Compared to the mayhem of the ER, the surgical intensive care unit was an oasis of ominous quiet, punctuated by the artificial hiss and thump of ventilators, monitoring equipment, and life support gear. The waiting area was empty. She approached the nursing station and asked about Jonah Stoltz.

He’d made it through surgery and was recovering in the SICU. She found him in a high-tech suite there, his small form looking even smaller in the steel cocoon of the hospital bed. A nurse stood at a computer terminal on a rolling cart, keeping track of all the monitors; she glanced up and Reese acknowledged her with a nod. Beside the bed, on a wheeled stool, sat Caleb Stoltz.

The big man had his head bowed and his eyes closed. Reese wondered if he was praying, or sleeping. A bandage held a cotton ball in the crook of his arm.

“Mr. Stoltz?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her and blinked, then instantly turned his gaze to the boy.

“I came to see how he was doing,” Reese explained, a little awkwardly.

“He woke up once, but he wasn’t really all there, know what I mean?”

“That’s normal under the circumstances,” she said with more authority than she felt. From the corner of her eye, she saw the nurse nod again in agreement. “He’s been through a major trauma, and the deep sleep is part of his recovery.”

“That’s what the other doctors said too.”

“I, um, found something.” She handed him the flattened souvenir coin. “I thought it might belong to Jonah.”

Caleb Stoltz took the coin in his big workman’s hand. “His lucky charm. Guess it didn’t bring him any luck today.” His hand hovered between the side bars of the hospital bed. He seemed unsure of what to do; then he let his fingers rest on Jonah’s knee.

The gesture made her heart ache. There was something so piercing about the two of them, strangers ripped away from their quiet existence and thrust into this frightening, sterile world. Her throat felt tight with compassion. “Mr. Stoltz, has anyone spoken to you about accommodations while you’re in the city?”

“No.” He kept his eyes on Jonah. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

A now familiar twinge of annoyance flared up in Reese. “I’ll see if I can find someone to help you out with that.” She took a step toward the door, and something else occurred to her. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a thing all day.”

“Hadn’t thought about that, either.”

“Let me show you where the cafeteria is.”

His long, sun-browned fingers curled around the boy’s knee. “I’d best stay here.”

“He’s going to be asleep for a while, I estimate. You won’t do him much good sitting here.” He shot her a look, and she added, “The cafeteria is close. We won’t be gone long.”

He stood up, his long body unfolding from the small stool. “All right,” he said simply.

In the elevator, Reese couldn’t help herself. She glanced at her watch.

“You late for something?” he asked.

Her cheeks heated a little. “No, it’s fine,” she lied.

The cafeteria of Mercy Heights was a linoleum and Formica emporium of instant gratification. Rows of salads, floating in a sea of chipped ice, led to long steamer tables of casseroles and overcooked meats in salty sauces. The desserts ranged from thick banana pudding surrounded by bland vanilla wafers to pies crowned with six inches of meringue.

Seeing his hesitation, Reese guessed that he didn’t have much practice eating at a cafeteria. She took the lead by selecting a brown plastic tray and gliding it along in front of the salad bar. Though she had no intention of eating, she selected a random salad, an entrée, and a dinner roll and helped herself to a tall, syrupy Coke from the beverage dispenser. Following her lead, he chose exactly what she did. Except on his tray, for a man of his size who hadn’t eaten all day, the food looked woefully meager.

“You need to eat more than that,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll be back here hungry again in just a couple of hours.”

With quiet compliance, he loaded up his tray with main dishes, a macaroni salad, and banana pudding, then followed her to the checkout line. Reese paid with her staff debit card. Briefly she considered picking up his tab but decided against it. She knew next to nothing about Caleb Stoltz, but she already sensed that he had his pride.

He took out a worn billfold and counted out the amount in cash. She led him to a table and sat down, resisting the urge to check her watch once again. Having dinner with a patient’s family member wasn’t exactly a breach of policy, but neither was it standard procedure. Certainly Reese had never done anything like this before.

But then again, she’d never met anyone like Caleb Stoltz before.

Just to have something to do with her hands, she took a napkin from the napkin holder and spread it over her lap. “So I guess—” She broke off, noticing that he had fallen silent and still, his head bowed as he perused his dinner tray.

A moment later, he looked up. “What’s that?”

“I guess it’s been a rough day for you. Please, go ahead and eat.” She toyed with her salad, swirling her fork in the wilted leaves.

He dived in, eating mechanically but probably not tasting the meat and potatoes, the green beans, the dinner roll shiny with butter. Reese kept trying to figure out what it was about him. An otherness. He seemed to be surrounded by some sort of invisible bubble or cocoon. Though he sat across the table from her, he inhabited a world she couldn’t touch.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Amish community, Mr. Stoltz,” she said, feeling somewhat abashed by her own ignorance. She’d taken a seminar in the cultural competency of physicians, meant to help a doctor understand the patient’s perspective. In the class, they’d covered far-flung cultures like Samburu tribes and Tibetan nomads, yet they hadn’t touched on a group right next door. “My impressions are based on things I’ve seen in National Geographic and on PBS.”

“That’s pretty much all most folks know.” He took a few more bites of food. “If you don’t mind, I go by my given name, Caleb.”

She vaguely remembered hearing that it was an Amish custom to use people’s first names rather than titles. Simplicity ruled their way of life, that much she knew. I wish I knew what you were thinking, she silently told him. He seemed so placid and calm, yet she sensed something more going on.

“So … Middle Grove?” She took a small bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully, picturing rolling hills, painted houses and barns, quilts pegged on clotheslines. “I’ve lived in the city all my life,” she said. “Not right here in Philly, but in Gladwyne, about twenty minutes away.” She turned her wrist to check her watch again and then caught herself.

She was surprised to look down at her plate to discover that she’d eaten most of the salad. With a shrug, she started in on the dinner roll. It had been a long shift today, and she hadn’t bothered with lunch. “Is it true you don’t use electricity or phones?”

“Each community has its standards,” he said patiently. “On our farm, we don’t use electricity or have a phone. If there’s an emergency, like there was for Jonah, there’s a phone in a shed we share with the neighbors.”

“Is everyone in your community Amish, then?”

“Most folks are, yah. We do get plenty of tourists coming through,” said Caleb. “More than our share, though it’s not as busy as it is down in Lancaster.”

She flashed on the news vans camped out in front of the hospital. “Do the tourists bother you?”

“Not me personally. I reckon it bothers some to have outsiders watching us going about our business, harvesting corn, or plowing a field, or our kids walking to school.”

She took a sip of her Coke. “It would bother me.”

They finished eating, and the silence between them was oddly companionable. She hadn’t meant to eat at all, but she’d just sort of done it without thinking. He had the oddest effect on her, this big, quiet Amish man. Time seemed to slow, moments slipped by, unnoticed.

A nasal sound came from her purse. He started, the first sudden movement she’d seen him make. “Sorry,” she said, fumbling in her handbag. “It’s my phone.” She took it out and checked the screen.

Her mother, of course.

“Shit.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

Shit. She’d completely lost track of the time. That wasn’t like her at all. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Caleb. Without waiting for his assent, she left the table and stepped over to the side of the cafeteria near the garbage cans. “Mom, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I’m tied up here at the hospital.”

“Your shift was over forty-five minutes ago,” Joanna Powell pointed out.

How many other adults had a mother who memorized their work schedule?

“I know, but there’s a sort of … interesting case I’m involved in.” She cast a glance at Caleb Stoltz, who had managed to put away a dinner that would have satisfied three regular-size men. “I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to getting together with you and Daddy tonight.”

“I guess there’s nothing else to be done,” her mother said. “We’ll just have to reschedule. In the meantime, I’ll email you some things about the residency interviews.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Reese said. “You’re the best.”

She got off the phone quickly and hurried back to the table. Caleb finished his large cup of Coke.

“Would you like something else to drink?” she asked. “There’s lemonade, iced tea, or—”

“I’m okay. Just not used to the taste of a Coca-Cola. Been a long time.”

Reese wasn’t quite sure why she’d stood up her parents in order to linger at the hospital with this man, a stranger whose nephew had passed through the emergency room. Ordinarily patients came and went like leaves floating down a smooth-flowing river. Often, that river flowed with blood, but it continued on as regularly as the janitorial staff that cleaned each exam room and curtain area after each successive patient.

Something about this man and his injured little boy took hold of Reese’s heart. She simply wasn’t ready to sign off on him yet. It happened that way with patients sometimes. The residents and attendings she worked with talked about the fact that a certain case or patient or family member caused a peculiar resonance in the doctor, for a variety of reasons.

Reese sheepishly acknowledged that a few of the reasons might have to do with an unusual man with piercing eyes, and a sweet, broken boy.

She accompanied Caleb back up to the SICU, stopping at the nurses’ station to see when the doctor would be by to talk to him again. Outside Jonah’s suite, they stood together, looking at the boy through the thick safety glass of the window.

“He’s still sound asleep,” Reese said.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“You can ask the doctor when he comes on evening rounds.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Almost. I’m a fourth-year med student. I was with the trauma team when they brought Jonah in, but he’s not my patient. I just thought you might want somebody around in case you have any more questions about Jonah.”

He leaned his hand on the upper frame of the window and kept his eyes on Jonah. His whole body tensed. “It’s good of you to take the time for us, Reese.”

It felt strange to hear him call her Reese. Patients and families often addressed her as “Doctor,” unaware that she hadn’t graduated yet.

She pressed her forehead to the glass and gazed at the small, still form amid the tubes and monitors. The huge bandage on the elevated arm stump dominated the scene. There would be nothing simple about this boy’s life now.

“Did anyone talk to you about what you might say to Jonah when he wakes up?” she asked.

“No. But I’ve thought about it plenty. How do you tell a little kid that he’s lost his arm? How do you tell him he’ll never throw a baseball with that hand again or hold a sandwich in his fingers, or pick up a tool to work? How do you tell him he’ll never properly shake hands with his bride’s father or pet his dog on the head with that hand?”

She winced at the pain she heard in his voice. “You just tell him. I wish there was another way, or a different outcome, but there’s not. You’ll simply have to tell him, directly and honestly, that he’s lost a limb and he’ll learn to get on without it. It’s terrible, but the worst part is over and he survived. A different sort of life is waiting for him now.” She felt surprised to hear herself speaking to him with more confidence than she felt. Speaking like the sort of doctor she hoped to become.

“What sort of life will that be?”

For the first time, Reese sensed anger in him. “With proper therapy and prosthetics, he’ll manage,” she said. “The technology is so advanced nowadays that a prosthetic arm with a properly fitted artificial hand can function very much like a natural one.” She bit her lip, wishing the words could be more reassuring.

“So you’re saying he’s going to get an artificial limb?”

“That’s the recommended protocol. It’s the best way to give him the most functionality,” she said. “The stump will need time and therapy to heal properly to accept a permanent prosthesis. Once he’s fitted with that, he’ll undergo more therapy to learn how to use his new hand.” She turned to him. “I know it’s hard. That boy’s life changed in an instant. But kids are incredible. I’ve worked with many of them in my rotations. They’re amazingly resilient. They can adapt to almost anything.” She resisted the urge to put her hand on his arm. “The ones who do best are those with a supportive family. Judging by how devoted you are, I’d guess Jonah has that.”

When he didn’t answer, a disturbing thought occurred to her. “Don’t tell me an artificial limb is against your religion,” she said.

“As far as I know, it’s not.”

“Good,” she said.

They stood together for a few quiet moments, then stepped into the room. The nurse at the computer terminal acknowledged them with a nod. Reese tried to picture Jonah playing in a baseball game, helping with farm chores, petting his dog.

“Do you feel like talking about the accident?” she asked.

“I already told everything to a woman from some agency. She wrote it all down and made a voice recording, too.”

She was probably from Child Protective Services, Reese guessed. “It’s standard to get a detailed report of an accident.”

“I see.” His face was somber. He was practically radiating guilt.

“Well, if you ever want to talk—not for a report or anything—I’d be happy to listen.”

To her surprise, he nodded slowly. When he spoke of his nephew, his reserve fell away. “I was in the kitchen when it happened. I was with Hannah—she’s Jonah’s big sister. We were just washing up after breakfast. I could see him across the field working at the neighbor’s silo, and everything seemed to be going just fine. He’s helped fill silo dozens of times. All kids pitch in with chores. Then I guess I got busy with something else, and a bit later, the neighbor came running over, said there’d been an accident.” His hand curled into a fist. “The way they told it, something got hung up in the shredding machine. Jonah was trying to push a stalk through when the blades caught him. It all happened fast. Real fast.”

Reese kept her gaze fixed on the red and blue monitor lights that gave a constant readout of Jonah’s vital signs. She was beginning to understand that even a boy Jonah’s age played a vital role on a family farm. He had lost more, perhaps, than a non-Amish boy.

And suddenly her cheeks felt hot with a deep sense of outrage. With all due respect to the Amish ways, she seriously questioned the practice of letting a boy do the work of a man. She wondered if there would be any further investigation, if Caleb would be questioned for putting a child at risk.

Then she bit her lip to keep herself from speaking out. Now was not the time and she was not the one to judge or comment. She reminded herself of the things she’d learned in her medical compassion classes. Even after the worst of accidents, a doctor must never point the finger of blame at the patient, or at any friend or family member. That was the role of social services. And more often than not, an accident was exactly that—an accident. In her ER rotation, she’d seen any number of adored, protected children who’d suffered accidents. A bad landing in a gymnastics competition. A cupboard door slammed on a finger. A fall down the stairs.

Guilt was a powerful force. It didn’t need any help from an outsider. No doubt Caleb Stoltz was feeling plenty guilty already.

Glancing sideways at him, she noticed the tension in his clenched fists and angular face, and in the way he held his neck and shoulders. She tried to imagine the sudden shock of an ordinary day turning into a nightmare.

Finally he spoke again from a place of deep anguish; she could hear it straining his voice. “I yelled at him this morning,” he said in a quiet, flat tone. “I yelled at him for teasing his sister. I told him to get on over to the neighbors’ to fill silo.”

“What would you have done if he hadn’t been teasing his sister?”

Caleb looked down at his fisted hands and flexed them open. “I would have sent him over to the neighbors’ to fill silo,” he conceded.

“Then you can probably quit trying to claim responsibility for an accident. As awful as this is, you should understand that things like this happen.”

“I’m his guardian. I love this boy more than my own life. But I failed him. I didn’t keep him safe.”

“Don’t keep torturing yourself about Jonah’s accident,” she said, though she knew words of comfort didn’t always allay the guilt. “Lots of people seem to do that in the ER, and it’s not helpful. Things happen. It’s awful, but the only choice is to go on.” An idea occurred to her. The Amish were a people of deep, abiding faith—or so she assumed, since they had created an entire way of life around it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your church. If you’d like to pray, there’s a chapel.”

“I’m not a prayerful man.”

She was surprised to hear him say that, having assumed his faith was what bound him to the Amish community. Not a prayerful man … and behind his reserved expression she detected a peculiar sadness. He represented a world so different from her own. She wondered what that world was like.

He stood unexpectedly close, and his nearness flustered her in a way she wasn’t prepared for. She detected no danger from him, it wasn’t quite like that; yet she felt something profoundly physical that she hadn’t experienced in a long time, maybe ever. And something spiritual as well; yearning mingled with hope, as though he represented a long-buried desire. Despite her exhaustion and the fact that she had canceled dinner plans with her parents for his sake, despite the fact that she had a policy against connecting too closely with a patient or his family, she felt drawn to this man with a strange affinity that was more than curiosity. When she looked at him, a gentle, peaceful feeling settled over her. Her vital signs seemed to slow down; the relentless pressures of the ER ebbed away.

She wished the social services counselor or someone from the chaplain’s staff—anybody—would show up. She left another message at the extension on the house phone.

The charge nurse came in to do a routine check on Jonah. Though she worked swiftly and efficiently, Reese could see her sneaking glances at Caleb Stoltz. Women seemed to stare at him the way people stared at a work of art, or an exhibit at the zoo. He appeared to have no notion of the feminine interest he sparked. Negligently handsome, with a body sculpted by hard, honest work, he looked far more intriguing than the doctors and staff who populated the halls of Mercy Heights.

She shared a look with the nurse and realized they understood each other perfectly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. What on earth was she thinking? Hospital fatigue must be getting to her. Maybe she was experiencing some sort of end-of-rotation ennui. She had absolutely nothing in common with an Amish farmer. Maybe, though, the unbreachable differences between them actually piqued her interest. She found him as exotic and baffling as he seemed to find the big-city hospital.

She tamped down a barrage of nosy questions. Her schedule was crammed, and she needed to sleep at some point. It was time, past time, to move on, to re-establish that professional distance. “Well,” she said, unsettled by her own thoughts, “I should go.” She made a point of checking Jonah’s chart. “Your nephew’s stable but still critical,” she said.

Caleb pressed himself as close to the bed as he could get. He eyed the bandaged stump of Jonah’s arm, and the look on his face made Reese’s heart freeze.

“I’m sure in the next few days, you’ll learn a lot more about the therapy and prosthetics I mentioned,” she tried to reassure him. “Really, Jonah will be able to live a normal life.”

He was silent for so long that she wasn’t certain he’d heard her. Then he looked up. “What’s a normal life?”

“I suppose it’s different for everyone. Jonah will have to find the answer on his own.”

“That’s a big question for a little boy.”

Another long silence. Reese had no idea what more to say. She was rescued from having to respond when someone from the chaplain’s staff stepped in. She said a reluctant farewell, and on her way out she took a shortcut across the skybridge that led to the maternity ward, which was called, not incidentally, the Powell Pavilion. It had been named in honor of her grandfather, a pioneer in human fertility in his day. She had a thought of her parents and their high-stakes, high-tech world, playing God and bringing miracles to life. What would Caleb Stoltz think of doctors whose daily work involved chemically freezing a woman’s uterus to force her to conceive?

And why should she care what he thought?

5

When Reese got to her apartment that night, she stepped inside, locked the door, turned, and realized she wasn’t alone. Something strange and intrusive hung in the air—an unfamiliar energy, a sense of things out of place.

Muttering under her breath, she made her way to the kitchen. The man she was expecting to see sat at the scarred maple table, drinking a glass of wine and reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair, the Young Turks of Hollywood edition she’d stolen from a hospital exam room. It was the closest thing she’d had to an actual date in six months.

Her intruder was a slender, handsome man several years older than her, with soft eyes and a cheeky grin.

“Hey,” she said. “You know, I gave you that key to use in case of emergency.”

“It is an emergency,” said her across-the-hall neighbor, Leroy Hershberger, who had been steadily nudging his way toward a true friendship with her since he’d moved in the previous year. “I ran out of wine.”

She grabbed the bottle and poured herself a glass. “Very funny.” She clinked her glass against his and took a sip.

“I was pretty sure you wouldn’t mind,” Leroy said. “I signed for this package that came for you.” He indicated a thick clasp envelope from Johns Hopkins in those large gentle hands that made him a gifted physical therapist. “Another residency program for you to go into a cold sweat over.”

“Thanks,” she said and drank more wine, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. He had a fresh haircut from the expensive salon he frequented, and he was dressed in Abercrombie & Fitch, indulgences he claimed kept him sane by reminding him that he had a life beyond scrubs. “You look nice. Plans for the evening?”

“I got stood up. Hence the drinking.”

“No way. Who was the culprit? And how dare she stand you up?”

“Some girls have all the nerve.” He stretched his legs out, looking nonchalant, though Reese knew he was struggling with disappointment. Leroy was single and lonely. Though the two of them were not a match romantically, they often commiserated over their uneventful love lives.

“Spending a quiet evening at home is underrated.” She glanced around the room. This apartment had potential, but it didn’t feel like home. Her place had a transitory atmosphere, as if someone were just packing to leave. She’d never gotten around to hanging a picture or two on the wall, or properly shelving her collection of textbooks and favorite novels.

A few touches of her personality lingered here and there, glimmers of a need for more depth and permanence. There was a quilt made for her by a former patient, draped over a painted wooden chair, and a cuckoo clock that had once belonged to her grandmother. Her kitchen tools included an embossed rolling pin and a pie fluter, which she’d never had a chance to use. She had a working fish tank with nothing but water and plastic plants in it.

She kept meaning to make the place feel more lived in, but work and studying kept getting in the way. If she followed her parents’ plan for her, she’d eventually be able to afford a fabulous house on the river, or a highrise condo, or maybe a colonial tract mansion in the suburbs. The trouble was, she didn’t seem to fit into the picture of her own life.

Like Caleb Stoltz didn’t fit, she thought, remembering the image of him standing hat in hand in his nephew’s hospital room.

She took another quick sip of wine. How much would the Amish man tolerate of the therapy Jonah was going to need?

Leroy stood up and walked around behind her, using his gentle, talented hands to massage her neck and shoulders. A skilled physical therapist, he had a way of digging into the source of tension. “I think rigor mortis has set in,” he said. “You’re stiff as a … stiff.”

“Very funny.”

“Rough day?”

“You could say that. Strange day.”

“I thought you were having dinner with your parents tonight,” he said.

She glanced at the calendar stuck to the refrigerator. “Nosy.” Every single day, it seemed, had something written in it. Interview with Jacobson. Study group, 6:00 P.M. Board review, 6:30 A.M.

“Jesus,” Leroy said. “Look at the way you schedule yourself. It’s not normal. I bet you schedule your bowel movements.”

She finished her wine. “Who has time for that?”

“There’s one thing missing on that calendar,” he said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“A social life. A life of any kind at all. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s something most people aspire to.”

“I’ll get a life once I get through the Match.”

“Sure you will. Except once you get yourself placed in the first residency, you have to make it into the next one, and once you find that, you have to apply for another, and after that you need to concentrate on your specialty, and then your subspecialty, and then—”

“All right, all right. You made your point.” She went over to the refrigerator, picked one of the few dates that wasn’t taken, and scrawled Get a life in the empty space. “At least I wasn’t stood up by—who was it this time, Roberta the caterer, right?”

“Roberta, yes. And yes, she’s a caterer. The rest of my day was fine. Two stroke patients, some back therapy, an accident victim with a major chip on his shoulder. He was no picnic, but I made him channel his rage into getting around in a wheelchair.”

She sat back down, poured more wine into her glass. “Have you ever worked with an amputee?”

“Sure. I have a certification in prosthetics.”

“There was an amputation in trauma today,” she said. “A little boy lost his arm.”

“That sucks. Poor kid. What happened?”

“It was a farming accident. He stuck his hand in a grinder or shredder of some sort. Amish kid,” she added. “I’d never treated an Amish kid before today. I’ve never even met anyone Amish.”

A funny look came over Leroy’s face. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

She didn’t get it at first. And then, all of a sudden, she did. “Holy crap, Leroy. Do you mean to tell me you’re Amish?”

“I was. Not anymore, obviously.”

In an odd way, Reese felt betrayed. “How can you be Amish and never have told me? You’re my closest neighbor. I’m supposed to know everything about you.”

“I knew you for six months before you told me you were a test-tube baby,” he pointed out.

“I didn’t think it was important,” she said with a distracted wave of her hand.

“Oh, right. Being the result of your parents’ medical specialty has defined you, princess. The petri dish princess.”

“And being Amish has obviously defined you. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” She stared at him as if regarding a stranger. Leroy? Amish? How could Leroy be Amish?

There was nothing remotely Amish about this man. Yet now that he’d said something, a few facts became clear. Since she’d known him she’d never met anyone in his family. When she’d asked about it, he’d said his family shunned him because he’d refused to marry a girl he was promised to and had moved to the city.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, “about the shunning you once told me about. Your family really did shun you. In the Amish way.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “Nothing like a good old-fashioned Amish shunning. They’re better at it than a group of seventh-grade teenyboppers.”

“Does that mean you never see or speak to your Amish friends and family?”

“That’s the general idea. It’s complicated. Those who’ve been baptized aren’t allowed to speak to me or share meals. Folks who haven’t been baptized yet have a little more latitude. But for all intents and purposes, I’m persona non grata in the community where I grew up.”

“I can’t believe you were Amish,” she said thoughtfully, still studying him. Clean-shaven, with soulful eyes and manicured hands, he looked every inch the modern male. “I keep trying to picture you Amish, but the picture just won’t form.”

“Oh, I did it all.” That edge of bitterness still sharpened his voice. “The bowl haircut and flat-brimmed hat, the drop-front trousers and suspenders, not a zipper within a five-mile radius. I have nine brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews I’ve never met. I haven’t been in contact with my family in years.”

“That must be so heartbreaking for you,” Reese said. “And for your family.”

“They got over it. There’s not a doubt in my mind that they got over it. It’s the Amish way.”

“Did you?”

He emptied the bottle of wine into his glass. “So tell me about this kid today.” His change of subject was deliberate and unbreachable. “He was probably filling silo, wasn’t he?”

“How would you know that?”

“It’s that time of year. The Amish year is determined by the seasons and the farm chores that go along with them. The corn and other grains are ripe and need to be harvested. On an Amish farm, the whole community gets involved.”

“I’m hearing a decided lack of affection and nostalgia in your voice,” Reese said.

“Let’s just say my experience with the Amish would not fit in the pages of National Geographic.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Was your family cruel to you? Did they neglect you? What?”

“I’m through talking about it, princess. Where did you say the kid was from?”

She forced herself to drop the subject of Leroy’s upbringing. “A place called Middle Grove. Do you know it?”

“Actually, I do. It’s up on Highway Fifty-Seven, same area as my hometown of Jamesville. Beautiful part of the state, near the Poconos. The Amish of Middle Grove are super restrictive. I remember they wouldn’t fellowship with our community because we were a bit more liberal.”

“I hope they’re not restrictive when it comes to Jonah—the amputee. But he might be in for rough times if they prohibit a prosthetic arm. Do you think they’d do that?”

“Hard to say. The Amish take care of their own. I guess it depends on the support he’ll get.”

Reese thought of Caleb Stoltz and the way she’d felt, watching his face as he stood over his injured nephew. “I don’t know about the whole family,” she said. “He’s got a loving uncle who’s raising him. An incredibly loving uncle,” she added. “He came in on life flight with the boy. The flight nurse said it was a near thing, with some of the locals at the scene claiming it was against their religion to fly.”

“But not against their religion to let a boy bleed to death. I’m glad the uncle was reasonable.”

“He was,” Reese said, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. “He is definitely reasonable. The boy’s parents are dead, and Caleb—that’s the uncle—is raising Jonah and … he mentioned that there’s a sister.” She pictured the big man and the life he’d described, somewhere out in the country, and the image brought a sigh to her lips.

“Oh my God,” Leroy said. “Can this be? You’re smitten.”

She pushed away from the table. “Bullshit. The guy’s kid is suffering a major trauma.”

He laughed at her indignation. “The hunky Amish farmer and the urban-American princess. It’s too precious.”

She scowled at him. “How do you know he’s a hunk?”

“I know your type. You like ridiculously good-looking guys.”

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

“Nope, I’ve been stood up, remember? You’re supposed to help me hobble through the evening. But for once, your life is more interesting than mine.”

“You just accused me of not having a life.”

“That was before I found out about the Amish guy.”

“There’s nothing about the Amish guy,” she said defensively. “Quit with the Amish guy.”

“Tell you what,” Leroy said expansively. “I’ll drop in and visit with the kid and his uncle tomorrow. Is he in the SICU?”

Nodding, she picked up their empty wineglasses and carried them to the sink. “That would be good.”

“See? I’m nice.”

Caleb awakened to the quiet sucking rhythm of hospital machinery. A bitter smell hung in the air, mingling with the coppery scent of blood. Although he came fully awake, he didn’t move, not right away. Instead, he sat very still in the hard, too-small chair made of molded plastic and crammed into the corner of the small cubicle where Jonah slept. A chaplain had offered to find him a bed for the night, but Caleb had declined, preferring to sit close to Jonah. The ever-present nurse stood in the dim glow of a computer monitor, gazing steadily at the screen. By looking out the display window past the nurses’ station, he could see the gray glimmer of a new day.

His hat sat on the floor beneath the chair. He hadn’t found anywhere else to put it. The glass, linoleum, and steel cage allowed no extra room for personal items.

“Good morning,” said the nurse at the computer.

“How’s he doing?” Caleb asked.

“He’s stable. He had a quiet night.” The Asian woman peered at him, her hands constantly busy on the keyboard. “Can I get you something?”

“Thank you, no.”

Caleb stood and went over to the bed. Jonah didn’t appear to have moved in the night. Throughout the dark, endless hours, nurses, health aides, medical students, and at least one doctor had come in to check Jonah or, more accurately, to check the equipment hooked up to his poor, broken body. Through it all, the kid hadn’t stirred, hadn’t even blinked an eye as far as Caleb could tell.

He rested the palm of his hand on the cold steel bars of the bed’s guardrail. Something had happened to Jonah in the night. The lost hours had diminished him, sucked the spirit out of him. The boy was smaller, paler than he had been only a short time ago. There was simply … less of him.

Maybe that was what a place like this did to a person. Drew things out of him, turned him into a ghost. Of course, Caleb told himself, Jonah would be dead if they hadn’t brought him to this hospital.

Looking down at the smooth, gray-white face, Caleb felt a painful surge of terror and love pushing at his chest. They had shaved Jonah’s head on one side and repaired the gashes with what appeared to be string and glue. His face was mottled by bruises and flecked with tiny cuts. A bit of blood had pooled and dried in the hollow of one ear. Caleb resisted the urge to clean it out.

Did I do this? he wondered. Did I let a terrible thing happen to an innocent little boy? He felt eaten alive by guilt.

In the wake of his brother’s death, Caleb hadn’t been sure he’d be able to raise Jonah and Hannah properly. And maybe he wasn’t doing such a good job, but right away he had learned how to love a child. It was the easiest thing he’d ever done. He loved Jonah with all his heart, and every second of the boy’s suffering belonged to Caleb, too.

Under such extraordinary circumstances, a man of faith would surely pray. He’d pray for this beautiful child to heal; he’d thank the Lord for sparing Jonah’s life. But Caleb Stoltz wasn’t a man of faith, not anymore. Maybe he’d never been one.

He found himself thinking about John, his older brother, Jonah’s father. John’s faith had been as deep as a well, as endless as the sky. He would have known how to pray for his son.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m real, real sorry about your boy,” he quietly murmured. “I’m going to do the best I can, the best I know how. I hope it’s enough.” But even as he spoke, Caleb feared it wouldn’t be.

His stomach rumbled, the noise loud and profane in the unnatural hissing quiet of the hospital room. He felt slightly embarrassed by the urges of his body. When something this terrible happened, it just didn’t seem right that Caleb would feel hungry, that his whiskers would grow, that he’d have to take a piss. And yet, that was the case.

He went to the men’s room down the hall, relieved himself, and washed up with thin, watery soap from an old wall dispenser, drying off with flimsy brown paper towels. He was startled by his own reflection in the mirror above the row of sinks. There were no mirrors in an Amish household, of course. Mirrors implied pride and vanity, which had no place in an Amishman’s character. He rinsed the taste of sleep from his mouth, snapped his suspenders into place.

But there were no suspenders. He was still wearing the green shirt and loose trousers Reese Powell had given him.

He hurried back to Jonah’s room. Another hospital worker stood by the bed, marking things on a glass tablet device. A dark-skinned fellow. He smiled politely when Caleb came into the room. “Your son’s been stable all night,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”

“When will he wake up?” Caleb asked.

“That’s up to him, mainly,” said the man. “The doctors can tell you more during rounds. But you can go ahead and talk to him. He’ll be groggy at first, but if everything goes well, he’ll be awake and chattering away in no time.”

When the health aide left, Caleb returned to his vigil beside the bed. “Jonah.” He spoke the boy’s name a few times, just Jonah, and nothing more. Then, since the nurse seemed absorbed in her monitoring, he spoke some more. “Jonah, it’s me, your uncle Caleb. I’m here waiting for you to wake up, because we’ve got lots to talk about. Can you hear me, Jonah? Can you?”

The boy lay as still as a rock. He resembled a graven image carved into a gray headstone like one of those stone angels the English favored in their cemeteries.

“Jonah, can you hear me?” Caleb tried again. “It’s me, Uncle Caleb. Can you feel my hand on your leg? It’s right here on your knee. I’m sure worried about you, Jonah. I sure do wish you’d wake up so we could have a talk.”

He kept standing there, gazing down, his big thumb absently circling Jonah’s knee. Then he saw it. The tiniest flash of movement. The flicker of a shadow on the boy’s cheek.

“Jonah?” Caleb leaned a little closer. “Come on, little man. You can do it.”

The boy blinked again, then opened his eyes. He stared up, then squeezed his eyes shut as if to hide from the glare of the ceiling lights. Caleb kept saying his name, gently touching his knee and right shoulder, taking care not to focus on the thickly bandaged truncated arm. Jonah opened his eyes again—a squint of confusion. This time, he didn’t look at the lights, but at Caleb. He moved his lips, his bluish cracked lips, but no sound came out.

“You can give him a little water,” the nurse said. “He can have sips of water and ice chips if he wants, until the doctor says it’s okay to eat and drink again.”

Caleb grabbed a paper cup from the tray by the bed. “Here you go,” he said, angling the straw to Jonah’s lips. He shifted to their German dialect. “Easy there. Take it easy.”

Jonah drew weakly on the straw. Most of the water trickled out the sides of his mouth and down into the hospital pillow under his head.

“You can raise the bed with this.” The nurse handed him a remote control on a cord.

Caleb fiddled with the automatic controls until he figured out the button that caused the head of the bed to slowly raise up. Jonah looked almost comically startled by the motion, but when he saw what was happening, he relaxed. Caleb raised the bed only a few inches, just enough so the boy could swallow rather than spill. Jonah took one more sip then and finally whispered, “Uncle … Caleb.”

“That’s me,” Caleb said too loudly and too cheerfully. “I’ve been sitting around wondering when you’d wake up.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“All night long, and then some.” Caleb looked right down into Jonah’s bewildered eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

The boy’s gaze darted to and fro. His poor face looked as though it had been slashed by vicious claws. “No.”

“We’re at the hospital,” Caleb said. “You got hurt bad, Jonah. Real bad. You had to have an operation. Do you remember getting hurt?”

“Um, not so much. I’m having trouble remembering,” Jonah said.

A nurse had warned Caleb about this. Victims of trauma often lost all recollection of the accident. Sometimes they never regained their memory of the specific event. It was a protective reaction. The mind didn’t want to remember a pain so deep and harsh.

“Do you remember going over to the Haubers’ to work?”

“Sure I do.”

Caleb was ashamed to realize that he’d been wishing Jonah would forget the entire morning. “Then you probably remember how I yelled at you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Jonah. I should know better than yelling.”

“Your yelling doesn’t bother me, Uncle Caleb.”

“It bothers me that I yelled.” Caleb took a deep breath. “Do you remember the shredder?”

“The shredder?” Jonah frowned slightly. “I know how to work it. I know how to work all the equipment. You taught me yourself.”

The trusting expression on his face pierced Caleb’s heart. “Something got fouled up in the blades.”

“It happens,” Jonah said. “And I know how to fix it, too. I grab a longer stalk and push it real hard—” He stopped abruptly. His frown deepened and then softened. He shut his eyes. His lower lip trembled. “Uncle Caleb?”

Caleb would have given his own life to avoid speaking the next words. “A terrible thing happened, Jonah. You got hurt bad, liebling. Real bad.”

The boy’s eyes opened very slowly, as if he knew somehow what he was about to face. With an even slower motion, he lifted his right hand from beneath the blue blanket. Blood had dried in the seams of the short, stubby fingernails. He opened and closed his hand.

Caleb took hold of it, cradled it between both of his big hands, and carried it to his lips. “I’m so sorry, Jonah. I’m so, so awfully sorry.” He felt resistance as the boy tried to free his hand from Caleb’s grip. And with shattering clarity, Caleb knew why.

He felt an urgent need to intervene before Jonah discovered the unthinkable all on his own. “Jonah, son, look at me.”

The serious blue eyes settled on Caleb’s face. There was bewilderment in those eyes, and a sense of betrayal. Jonah was a child; he’d given a child’s trust to those charged with looking after him, and he’d been betrayed.

“Your other arm’s gone, son,” Caleb said quietly. “It got cut off.”

They both fell silent. Caleb imagined the realization sinking like poison into the boy’s mind. Jonah didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak a word for several agonized moments while he looked at his bandaged stump, wrapped in layer after layer of cream-colored gauze. There was a cap or spigot of some sort protruding from the bandage.

“Gone?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“It got all mangled in the shredder. There was so much damage that it couldn’t be fixed. They had to cut it off in order to save your life.”

“Gone?” Jonah said again. “It’s my arm. How can it be gone?”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Caleb said. “I’m still … I can hardly believe it myself, except that I was there. The emergency workers saved your life. They came out right away, did what they could to stop the bleeding, and then they called a rescue helicopter. Life flight.” It had all happened just twenty-four hours ago, yet it seemed as though a lifetime had passed. “They brought us here to the hospital in the helicopter,” Caleb added. “You and me both.”

“We flew.”

“Yeah, we flew. Right up into the sky, like a bird or a dragonfly.”

“Isn’t that against Ordnung?”

Caleb pushed up one side of his mouth, an attempt at a smile. “Just like your daddy, you are,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I was more worried about you bleeding to death than I was about church rules.”

Jonah flinched and pulled his gaze away from the terrible, bandaged limb. His face was a picture of dull, uncomprehending shock. He had that look you might see on the face of a mother who’d just lost a child. Miriam Hauber had worn that look long after she’d lost a baby just hours after its birth. That same dazed, hollow nothingness, as if the world had suddenly become a place he didn’t recognize.

“Then what happened?” asked Jonah.

“Everything went real fast,” Caleb said. “I’m not even sure I remember everything right myself. They took you off the chopper while the blades were still going around, and they rushed you down to the emergency ward. Then it was like flies at a picnic, and you were the main dish. I had no idea such a crowd of folks could swarm all over a little old tadpole like you. They hung blood, and put in lines, and yelled stuff at each other, stuff I couldn’t begin to understand. Everyone worked real hard to save your life, Jonah. What happened was, the folks in the trauma center, the doctors and nurses and interns and so forth, they got you stabilized. What that means is they made sure your heart was okay and your blood pressure, and your breathing, so they could take you up to surgery.” It felt strange, speaking of such unfamiliar things, but Caleb saw no point in hiding anything from Jonah.

Jonah looked at the ceiling. “Where is surgery?”

“It’s … it’s a place where they took you to do an operation to save your life.”

“Is it where they cut off my arm?”

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, surprised to feel the throb of a headache. He didn’t often get headaches. “Yes, son. Yes.”

Jonah turned his attention back to the bandaged arm. “Were you there?” he asked. “I mean, when they were cutting off my arm, were you with me?”

“What? No.”

“I wonder if they used a saw, like Eli Kemp when he’s doing the butchering.”

Good Lord almighty. “I was in a waiting room, thinking about you the whole time. When the operation was done, they put you here in this place called the surgical intensive care unit. Hospital folks have been checking on you all night long. I reckon the doctors will be real pleased to see that you’re awake and talking.”

Caleb left a gap of silence for Jonah. Sometimes silence was needed, not more talking. Caleb had learned this when, in a single terrible moment, he became responsible for Jonah and Hannah.

Yesterday, though, when they’d rushed the boy off to surgery, he had been grateful for talk. He remembered pacing the waiting area of the emergency room, wondering what was going to happen next and not knowing whom to ask. That was when Reese Powell had approached him. Caleb could not remember what had been going through his head when she’d arrived. But he remembered turning to her, and feeling a small but noticeable measure of relief when she offered a change of clothes and then helped him navigate his way through the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital.

He wasn’t sure why she had taken an interest in him. Everyone else in the emergency room seemed to race from crisis to crisis, darting and feinting through an obstacle course of equipment, coworkers, frightened patients, and families.

Reese had looked very young to Caleb, though she projected an air of confidence. She was different from anyone he’d ever met, man or woman, in a way that tempted him to stare, like he’d stared at Niagara Falls or a shooting star. Her short hair was as black and shiny as the wing of a raven, framing a face he could look at all the livelong day. Of course, he had no call to be noticing the beauty of a woman, especially at a time like this, but noticing her like that wouldn’t change what had happened, no matter who was bleeding on the operating table.

When she’d started talking to him he had realized the source of that beauty was something simple yet powerful—compassion, combined with a fierce and earnest intelligence. She had this way of looking at him as if she knew how scared he was for Jonah and how much he needed to understand what was happening to his nephew. As she’d explained the terrible injury, Caleb had sensed the smallest glimmer of hope. He knew a medical student was only at the beginning of the practice of doctoring, like an apprentice carpenter learning from a master craftsman. Yet there were things that she knew, things he couldn’t even imagine. Things about the human body and the way it worked or failed to work. Through yesterday’s endless hours, Reese Powell had seemed absolutely determined to stick with him, answering not only the questions he asked but also those he didn’t even know how to.

All this seemed to be a lot to notice about a woman he’d only just met. But Caleb was like that sometimes. He’d meet someone and see exactly what that person was like based on a few minutes’ conversation.

It hardly mattered now. He probably wouldn’t see her again. She was one of the many strangers passing through. Yet for some reason, his thoughts kept drifting back to Reese Powell. In addition to her fierce, intimidating intelligence, he also sensed something sterile and lonely about her. When they’d gone to the cafeteria, she hadn’t talked to anyone along the way. It was probably out of character for her to take the time to help him through his first night in the city.

Jonah gazed at him in silence, and Caleb felt guilty for dwelling on his encounter with a woman. Jonah’s face took on a soft, sleepy look, his eyes half-lidded. “Where’s Hannah?” he asked softly.

Caleb pictured Jonah’s sister, crumpled in a tragic heap as the helicopter bore her brother away. “Back home in Middle Grove. I left word with Alma at the phone box that you were going to be all right. And you are, little man, I swear.”

“How can I be all right if my arm’s gone?” Jonah’s voice was the tiniest whisper.

“Because you’re Jonah. My best good boy. And I swear by all that I am that we’ll get through this.”

His throat felt thick with the lie. There was no getting through a loss like this.

“Hannah knows about my arm? Did you tell Alma to tell her?”

“I told Alma you’re going to be all right,” said Caleb. “She’ll let Hannah know.” He had not said anything about the arm, only that Jonah was going to get better. Given what Hannah and her brother had already lost, he owed her the full story, but not until he could see her, hold her hand, and reassure her.

“You’re wearing funny clothes,” Jonah said.

Caleb looked down at the borrowed shirt and trousers. “A lady named Reese loaned these to me.” He didn’t want to explain that his other clothes were covered in Jonah’s blood. “They’re called scrubs, which is curious, since they don’t seem to be used for scrubbing anything.”