“But Rector’s the last of them, ain’t he? The last one of that generation.”

“If he’s not the last, he might as well be. The rest have either growed up and moved on or died. Just like Rector would’ve died, without you looking after him.”

The nurse shrugged this off. “All I did was let him alone, and make sure he got plenty of water. His own body did the rest. He’s looking brighter now, have you noticed? The yellow under his eyes, I think it’s fading. Might even go away, someday, if he keeps his nose clean.”

“It might or might not. He might, or might not.”

“He seems to get on good with Zeke and Huey. Maybe they’ll be a good influence on him.”

Angeline cocked her head, and nodded to indicate that it was possible. But then she said, “Or maybe he’ll be a bad influence on them. It could go either way.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mercy tied her package up with twine, being careful to leave the address clear. It was going to Sally Louisa Tompkins, care of the Robertson Hospital in Richmond, Virginia. “Huey’s too smart to fool, and Zeke’s such a gentle thing … I think they can handle their new friend all right.”

“As long as he keeps his nose clean.” Angeline borrowed Mercy’s expression.

“Yes, well. There’s that. But you didn’t catch him using, or see any sign that he’d done so?” she asked for the dozenth time.

“No, dear, I didn’t. And no one out at the Station would give him any—on Yaozu’s orders. If that boy can keep his head on straight, and if he can stay away from the rotters, and if he can keep his mask on, and if he can make himself useful down here somehow or other … he might be all right.”

The nurse held the package in her lap and absently ran her fingers over the address. The ink had dried, and nothing streaked. “We sure do say might a lot, don’t we?”

“The world’s an uncertain place.”

“That it is,” she agreed. And then, somewhat quietly, “More uncertain than either of us knows. But someone, somewhere knows. And someone, somewhere is keeping everyone god-awful quiet.”

“You mean, how all those men disappeared? The ones you tried to reach?”

For a moment Mercy was silent. She stared down at the package. “Not the ranger, not the Union captain, not the passengers I shared the car with. Not the Mexican inspector, and not the Confederates who made it out alive. No one, Angeline. It’s too many people to be a coincidence. Too many people lost, or silenced.”

Then, as if to change directions, she said, “You know how slow I write, don’t you? I’m not too good at it, and that’s no secret.”

“You do a real fine job, Mercy.”