The telegraph office was in a cottage next to the post office downtown. There they waited, under a snapping Stars and Stripes, under the wires that tethered Camden to the outside world. They had bought ice creams at a store up the street, inhaling rather than eating them because they hadn’t eaten breakfast. Still hungry, they depleted their account another fifteen cents and bought three more cones, which they were now devouring while they waited beneath the flag, beneath the wires vibrating in the wind.

Finally, Gertrude Williams hove into view, her majestic prow seeming to cleave through the other pedestrians. Saying, “Let us proceed,” she steamed into the office, snatched some forms from a tray and a couple of pencils, and, crouching over the counter, began to write.

“I must send mine first. We have similar missions. I am informing my brother of his son’s whereabouts. Will swears he told his father that he was coming here, but I don’t believe much of anything Will says.” Glancing at Nathaniel, she pushed a pencil and one of the blank sheets at him. “Get on with it. Just remember that brevity is the soul of wit, and when one is sending wire, it’s cheaper, too.”

“Dearest Mother,” he began. “We are OK stop.” That sounded dumb, he crossed it out. “Today finds us in good health stop.” No. Way too stilted and wordy. Mrs. Williams, meanwhile, handed her message to the telegraph operator, a scrawny man with the dour look of a failed preacher. Returning to the counter, she cast a dismayed look at Nathaniel as he stood chewing the end of his pencil.

“You are writing a telegram, not immortal poetry,” she snapped. “And take that out of your mouth. Don’t they teach germ theory at Andover? Here. Give that to me.”

Half a minute later, she presented her composition to the boys for their approval, then passed it to the operator, who, tucking up his gartered sleeves, began to tap the key. When he was done, she paid him, clearing her throat and giving a quick, conclusive nod, the economical gesture expressing a sense of satisfaction with herself and with the situation she had begun to rectify. She had done her duty to her friend, and beyond her friend, to the cause of domestic order in general.

Outside, she stepped into the street, raised a hand to halt an oncoming wagon, and then strode across.