Nathaniel turned to stare at the sodden fields of ryegrass passing outside the window. He’d overheard similar comments the entire journey. He didn’t defend himself, because they were right. He kept staring at Caroline’s list of churches, carefully noting each one that had gotten her message to ring their bells.

One of the journalists stood to call out to someone near the front of the car. “Hey, Robertson, what date was President Garfield assassinated?”

Robertson stood to reply. “September 19th, 1881. Here we are, exactly twenty years later, and we’ve got another president shot to death. When are we going to figure out how to handle presidential security?”

There was some general nodding and murmuring, but two rows ahead, Rembrandt got out of his seat and headed down the aisle toward Nathaniel. There was pity on the photographer’s face as he took the vacant seat beside him.

“Pay them no mind,” Rembrandt said quietly. “They don’t know you like I do.”

“They’re not saying anything I don’t already know.” Nathaniel didn’t have the energy to feel angry or defensive. Part of him wished he could ignore what was being said, but he needed to listen for the tolling of the bells. There were over a hundred churches on the route, and he wanted to turn in an accurate list to Caroline. That meant he had to listen.

Earlier, one of the journalists had reported that Emma Goldman had been released from jail. In cities all over the nation, people had been agitating for revenge, and the police, lawyers, and politicians all did their best to pin the crime on prominent anarchists.

Others disagreed. A handful of lawyers came forth to claim that the First Amendment granted anarchists the right to speak their minds freely, and Goldman had been released.

Another weight settled on Nathaniel’s chest. It probably wasn’t Emma Goldman’s fault, anyway. It was his fault. Rembrandt and the others had been saying all sorts of kind things to soften his role in this tragedy, but he knew the truth.

“How about you and I go out for a decent meal once we’re back home?” Rembrandt suggested. “We can go out for a nice plate of Chesapeake blue crabs.”

Rembrandt was trying to be nice, but the next town on Caroline’s list was coming up, and Nathaniel had a duty to perform. He gave Rembrandt an apologetic look.

“Forgive me, but I need to be sure this list is accurate.”

Mercifully, Rembrandt understood. He clapped a reassuring hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, then returned to his own seat a few rows ahead.

It was pitiful, but this mindless checklist was the only thing holding his sanity together right now, and he wasn’t going to let Caroline down.