A calm washed over her like a flood of warm water. All the panic of the moment, the fear of the blood, the anticipation of the storm were gone. Her eyes closed, and she saw clearly a blue liquid start to flow through her, saw it come through the top of her head, sparkling with little golden flecks, and it swept easily, pleasantly, through her head, her neck, down her chest and through her arms to her hands. They felt warm with the sudden rush, yet cool with the freshening balm. In her mind’s eye, she saw the cool blue, like an icy mint, surround the hot throbbing wound, and the fever was drawn out, the pain was soothed, the blue liquid melting into the tissues like butter on a fresh hot roll. The rent flesh merged together again, naturally, melding and flowing under the touch of her hands.

The flow of blue trickled, then stopped. Gradually, reality reentered her senses. She heard Harry’s raspy breathing. She heard the wild wind rattling and shaking the house. She opened her eyes. She saw David’s unconscious frame lolling in the chair. She moved her hands, and saw the long forearm covered with blood, and a thin red scar running down its length. She dipped a towel in the warm water and washed off the blood. The arm was pink and healthy looking.

She dared not look into Harry’s face. She kept working, cleaning the blood away, frightened, trembling, not understanding. When the arm was clean, she indicated the couch. “Let’s get him to the sofa.” She looked up at Harry. He was staring, open-mouthed, at her. She didn’t want him to look at her that way. “Come on, Harry.”

Between them, they dragged David to the sofa and laid him down. Fern fetched a pillow for under his head. Then she covered him with a blanket and made two cups of tea. Her hands were shaking. She had to keep them busy.

She put the tea on the table, then sat down next to Harry. He was still staring.

“That arm was laid wide open.”

She nodded. “I saw.”

“It’s a miracle.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I guess it was.”

3

CHAPTER 3

Martha kneaded the dough. She pushed and folded, pushed and folded, sprinkling flour in the sticky places. It was an automatic, easy rhythm. Her pudgy fingers knew the work by themselves. As she pushed, her body rocked forward, up on her toes. As she folded, she fell back flat on her heels. Pushed and folded, sprinkled more white flour, pushed some more.

Her mind wandered.

The chickens squawked and fought over the new food. She didn’t think they would like it; it was just hard pieces of corn and seeds. Looked like rocks, too, in it. But they loved it. They just scratched and pecked and flapped.