Travis grips my hands tightly, as if to comfort me rather than take comfort for himself. Midway down his thigh a garish red gash still oozes watery-looking blood. It is held together with rows of large, lopsided stitches. Sister Tabitha places her hands on each side of the gash and presses, causing Travis to whimper, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“There is no infection yet,” she says to me without looking up. “Which gives me hope.” She winds fresh strips of cloth back over the raw flesh. “But the break was bad and I do not know if we set it correctly so we will have to wait and see. One thing I do know”—she lifts the sheet back up to his chin and tucks it around him tightly—”is that Travis will be in this bed for the rest of winter at least and lucky to walk again. It is in God's hands now.”

“Can…” Travis hesitates, swallows, his face pale with sweat standing out on his forehead.

“Can Mary come pray for me?” he asks.

Sister Tabitha looks long and hard at Travis and then at me, still holding his hands in mine. She nods once, a sharp movement that is over in a heartbeat. “She may. But for now she must return to her studies. And you should know, Travis, that she is not allowed to speak except in prayer, so please do not tempt her to do more than that.” I look down at the way Travis's fingers curl around my own. I think back to the day months ago when his brother Harry and I held hands under the water and he asked me to the Harvest Celebration that now is long past. I remember how puffy and wrong Harry's skin looked then and how tough and calloused Travis's feels against my own soft skin.

I turn Travis's hand over and look at the lines that crisscross his flesh and I wonder at all I have lost since then.

I find myself in Travis's room every morning. I help Sister Tabitha clean his wound, which is still raw and red and has the Sisters concerned. They frown and murmur God's words when they pass by. Everyone is praying for his recovery. I want to know what happened to him but I keep silent as commanded. All I need to understand is that there was a severe break in the bone that punctured the skin and it's not healing the way it should.

More often than not Travis is buried in blankets when I see him, half delirious with heat and fever. Most of the time he doesn't recognize me. Other times he grabs at me and begs for water and to make it stop.

When I can, I kneel by his bed and I take his hands and fold them in mine and I lean close to his ear and whisper to him. I know I should be praying and that the Sisters believe fervently that prayer is the only thing that will save him, but I cannot do it.