Her gaze drifted down to him, she lifted a quick smile, and she removed the last newspapers from the rack.

Ordinarily, he’d end the conversation there. Since his remaining time on earth could be measured in months, he didn’t flirt with girls. But something about Leah reminded him of a lost puppy in need of a bone and a pat on the head.

“Have you ever been to the Library of Congress?” he asked.

“No, never.” She pulled a fat Sunday paper from her cart and laid it over a dowel. “Before I came here, I’d only patronized my school libraries in Des Moines. But when I was little, my parents took me to a grand library that smelled of leather and lemon oil and looked like a starry sky, even by day. I wish I knew where it was.”

Clay massaged his sore bicep. “Don’t your parents remember?”

Another paper joined its friends on the rack. “My parents died when I was four. I don’t remember my name, much less where we lived.”

That shoved the air out of his lungs harder than when Ernie McKillop had thrown him to the ground in training the day before. “I’m sorry to hear that, miss.”

“Don’t be.” She smiled as if she were consoling him, and she folded the last paper over the rack. “I never wanted for anything, and the second orphanage, the one in Des Moines, treated me kindly.”

He winced. “But your . . . name.”

She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “I do remember my first name. It’s Thalia. But the people who adopted me from the first orphanage said it was pagan and foreign, since Thalia is one of the muses in Greek mythology. They called me Leah for short and gave me their last name, Jones. When they left me in Des Moines, the orphanage kept the name.”

Clay’s jaw sagged. She rattled off the tragedies like most girls rattled off their favorite movie stars.

Leah rested her chin in her hand and smiled toward the bookshelves. “My last name was long and Greek and sounded like Ka-wa-los. Maybe one of these books will tell me. Maybe someday I’ll see a name and say, ‘That’s it.’”

Despite everything bad that had happened to Clay, he had his name and a home and parents who loved him. Leah didn’t.

“Listen to me jabbering.” She leaned forward. “What are you reading?”

Clay grabbed the newspaper to drag over, but it was too late.

“Guides to Therapy for Medical Officers,” she read upside down. “Are you a medical officer? No, you’re a private. Are you a medic?”

“No . . .” A dozen excuses bounced in his head, each falling flat. Hadn’t she told him her long and sorry life story? Clay leaned his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “Listen, none of the fellows know this, so please don’t say anything.”