The next morning, a little after sunrise, we board the train that will take us to Arizona. I don’t know how well Kat slept, but I slept poorly, and as we ease away from Los Angeles and toward golden mountains the color of toast and honey, the clacking of the train soon lulls us both to sleep. When I awaken we are in the middle of a barren wasteland dotted with towering, multiarmed cacti that look as though they are beings from a fantasy world. We head to the dining car for lunch, and then finally at a little after one in the afternoon we pull into the Tucson station, a wooden depot with deeply set eaves and windows that are shaded by colorful awnings. It is only late April, but it is already ninety summerlike degrees. I can see why people who suffer from consumption move to this part of the country. The heat is intense and bone-dry. I am no expert on the disease ravaging Candace’s body, but I do know consumption turns the lungs into a wet soup before it kills you. Anything wet here is surely soon dry.

I hire a carriage to take us to a hotel near the station. The two-story building is plastered in creamy white stucco with arches and a red-tiled roof. The inside of the hotel is only slightly cooler than outside, but I want to freshen up—as best I can—before I take Kat to her mother. And I want Kat to look well cared for, too.

I change and apply fresh toilet water. I rebraid Kat’s hair and retie the ribbons on her dress.

Then I sit her down with her hands folded in mine.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen today, love,” I tell her. “I don’t know if you’ll be coming back with me to this hotel tonight or if I will see you again before I’m asked to return to where I came from.” I watch her face to see if these words are affecting her.

She blinks. She breathes. She says nothing. But I feel her hand stiffen the tiniest bit under my palm.

“Whatever happens, I will come back to visit. I will bring Belinda and the baby with me. I promise you that, Kat. I promise.”

Her eyes take on a silvery luster.

“And I want you to know that I love you as if you were my own daughter. I always will. Will you remember that?”

I wait for her to answer me. Several seconds later she nods. Once.

“All right, then. Now, you know your mama’s been very sick. She may not be able to see us today or she might not be able to put her arms around you or the nurses might not let us get too close because they don’t want us to get sick. So we need to be ready for whatever we might see when we get there, all right?”

Another nod. I wish I knew what she was thinking. I wish I could hear her voice just one more time.