A few minutes later, Desmond was lost in the story world, the horror around him forgotten, the stench extinguished. Even the moans of the people sharing the room faded away—until a tall, black-haired man interrupted. He was roughly Charlotte’s age, and he stood in the aisle gazing at her in a way that made Desmond want to get up and block his view.

“You coming, Charlotte?”

“No. You go ahead.”

“You were off an hour ago, dear.”

Desmond hated the way he said dear.

“I know. Gonna stay a bit longer.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Don’t.”

The man exhaled deeply, the way Desmond’s father always did when dealing with a stubborn horse.

When he was gone, Charlotte continued reading as if there had been no interruption.

They were halfway through the story when she closed the book.

“Bedtime, Des.”

She tucked him in and brushed his blond hair out of his face, then turned off the kerosene lantern. It was his first good night of sleep since the fire.

The next morning he had hoped to continue the book, but Charlotte had another surprise. She brought around a wheelchair and asked if he’d like to get outside for some fresh air.

She didn’t have to ask twice.

She pushed him out of the room, down the hall, and outside. The February sun felt good on Desmond’s face. It had been a hot summer, one Australia would remember for a long time to come. He let the wind whip at his face and toss his hair about as he inhaled deeply, thankful to take a breath not tainted by the smell of death.

He propelled the wheelchair himself after that, glad for the freedom. His feet were still healing. The doctors had assured him he’d make a full recovery.

“You’ll be walking around again in no time,” they promised him. He couldn’t wait. He’d had no idea how precious a gift walking was until then.

Charlotte returned in the late afternoon and read to him until lights out. That became their pattern: a field trip in the morning, reading until bedtime.

A week later, Desmond again asked her what would happen to him.

“We’re working on it, Des. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Slowly, as the days went by, he got his feet under him again. He began to rove around the school without the wheelchair. He toured the cafeteria, the other classrooms, even the teachers’ lounge, the idea of which thrilled him. In reality it was rather unimpressive.

He even volunteered, helping prepare the meals. The overweight cook had handed him a metal ladle and dubbed him the “souper scooper.” The man let out a hacking laugh that turned into a cough every time he said it. Despite that, Desmond rather liked the bloke.