“Thank you,” I say. They probably returned by way of the generous Hoffmans, hoping for a treat. “I hope the twins feel better soon.”

I make my good-byes and wander away, my mind still churning over the news of Mrs. Joyner’s pregnancy.

Mrs. Lowrey, the preacher’s wife, is alone on her wagon bench, mending a bonnet.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” I say.

Mrs. Lowrey jumps, startled. She’s a small woman, mousy and plain, with a belly as big as a barn. She almost never leaves the wagon; her husband keeps her under tight rein. He would probably loathe what I’m about to suggest.

“I know you’re busy, Mrs. Lowrey, but with Mr. Joyner sick and all, Mrs. Joyner could use . . . well, not a hand, maybe, so much as an ear. It’d be a blessing if you could check in on her, and maybe offer to pray with her.”

It’s like my words are magic. “Well, no one could have an objection to that!” she says.

No, they couldn’t. As she pries herself up from her bench, I hope it’ll be good for both of them.

I check in with the Major, and let him know that some of our folks are sick—Mr. Joyner, the Robichaud children. I don’t say anything about Mrs. Joyner’s condition, because I’m supposed to be a man now. Soon enough, it’ll be visible for all to see, and there won’t be any point saying something now.

I take some jerky and bread with the college men, who are always unstinting with their butter and glad for company. We chat for a long time. Jasper tells me that some of the Missouri men have fallen ill too. “Stay away from them,” he warns. “And from Mr. Joyner, if you can. I expect we’ll lose a few people to the sickness before it’s done.”

I recoil a little. “Like who?”

He shrugs. “People who have eaten unripe fruit, maybe. Or those who drink too many spirits.”

I need to warn Jefferson. I thank the college men for dinner and make my way back to the Joyners’ wagon. Jeff isn’t here, but I find Mrs. Joyner in a much better temper.

“That was a kindness to send Mrs. Lowrey over,” she says.

“She looked like she could use the company.”

“We prayed together,” Mrs. Joyner says. “She prays with sincerity and sound doctrine, even though she is a Presbyterian. I may invite the Lowreys over to our wagon for supper sometime.” After a pause she adds, “She could fall sick any day now.”

“Any of us could. But I don’t think she has the cholera,” I say.

Mrs. Joyner turns her face away. “No, woman-sick. Forget I said anything. You wouldn’t understand.”