In his new living area, Heath has increased personal space and is able to enjoy the outdoors on his own, as long as he stays on Army property. In addition, multiple volunteer groups have access to this portion of the enormous camp. The volunteers provide various services to the large groups of men working to regain their health, many far from home and the support of their friends and family.

Heath put his crutch against the corral fence and waited for his friends to wander his way. As was his habit, more food from breakfast was in Heath's pockets than in his stomach. He handed out his apple slices, the brown sugar that belonged on his oatmeal, but saved the largest piece of toast for the auburn mare with the jet black mane who stole his heart a week before when Heath first visited the corral.

The US Army Sergeant, in charge of the large stables and grounds, made his way to Heath's side, also a daily occurrence. The two men talked, horses being their favorite subject, and the older man marveled at the young man's absolute gift with the large beasts. When Heath's buddies had all been spoiled, he followed the Sergeant into the stables and they checked on an officer's horse that came back in the night before with a badly cut foreleg. Heath's presence immediately calmed the horse and the twosome discussed the best plan of treatment. Normally, at least for the week Heath had been living on this side of the US Army camp, he would have stayed around the horses all day but, today, the young man felt worn. In fact, Heath woke up feeling worn which was unusual for him.

As Heath slowly hobbled back to his bunk, he couldn't help but wonder what was happening to him. Early morning had always been his time of day. Even during the past few months, which were full of incredible pain, Heath's best moments were first thing in the morning. Heath took a seat under a tree for a much needed rest. He smiled thinking of the first few minutes of each day, the ones where he found himself floating in the marvelous haze between sleep and awareness. During those moments, Heath felt well but then, he moved and reality crashed in on him physically, mentally, and spiritually.

Good thing he had his Mother, Aunt Rachel, and Hannah waiting for him in Strawberry. Otherwise, Heath would have done like so many of the other fellas around here, he would have given up and let himself die. Gosh, there wasn't a time when death didn't seem so much easier a task than living these days, especially back in the hellhole, Carterson, but Heath had every intention of going home to Strawberry. Yes, those three ladies waiting for him to come home gave him the courage to go on. Heath wondered if they knew how important they were in his life. He decided to write later and be sure to tell them.

Heath shook off his morbid thoughts, and his homesickness, then, concentrated on getting up from the ground without twisting his back too much. After some deep breaths, to fight the pain shooting up his back and down his legs, Heath returned to his slow journey back across the camp to rest on his bunk. As he walked, Heath took in the improved atmosphere on this side of the camp. Men were sick, and it smelled like a hospital, but there was far less screaming, moaning, and those awful shrieks of agony, except in Heath's dreams. In addition, there were far more civilians wandering around this side of camp including preachers, family members, volunteers from all sorts of groups, and the "Cookie" Ladies, as Heath thought of them. Gosh, it was wonderful to see people not in Army blue.

"You're gonna wear a hole in those slippers, Private."

"Yes, Sir."

Heath eased himself past Captain Lutz, his doctor. Captain Lutz was in charge of six of these enormous "rehabilitation" tents, as they were called in US Army lingo. The doctor was a tall, willowy, man with a easy smile, kind eyes, and a big crop of pure white hair. Captain Lutz was retired from his practice out there, in the real world, beyond the camp's fences but the Army was in desperate need of doctors and he volunteered. Luckily, he had been assigned to this gray area of men. Captain Lutz had eight children out there, all grown men. Being a father, as well as a doctor, Captain Lutz seemed acutely aware of not only the physical needs of his patients, whose average age was maybe 20 to 25, but he was aware of their mental and spiritual needs as well.

Many of his boys, as the Captain referred to them, were injured physically and mentally beyond current medicine's ability to mend them. On the other hand, they endured and survived obstacles many humans would not have survived thus, Captain Lutz believed a lot of sincere care and attention, along with his medical expertise, might just convince a few of his boys to fight on toward true wellness.

"Sit up, Heath, let me take a look at you."

Heath slowly opened his eyes unable to hide the surprise he felt realizing he had fallen asleep when he made it back to his cot. He wondered how long he'd been dozing since it looked like Captain Lutz was finished making rounds on the other nineteen men in Heath's tent.

"Yes, Sir."

"Let's slide off your shirt, today. I want to see how Andy's handiwork is making out with those dressings."

Heath didn't fight when Andy, the medical orderly for their tent, reached in and helped the obviously exhausted young man lift off his pajama top. The doctor removed the dressings across the last of Heath's reconstructive surgery sites. For someone the US Army physician's in Texas only months before documented as having no salvageable skin on his back, buttocks, and upper thighs due to numerous untreated lashings, Heath was doing remarkably well. Now, if their luck only held out against infections for a bit longer, the kid would make it, miraculous as that may seem.

"How's the hip?"

"Better, not bad," Heath could hear the lie in his own voice, "but I have been keeping to my promise and using my crutch."

"Good," the doctor scrubbed a bit harder than Andy normally did in one of many sensitive areas of Heath's back, "sorry, Heath. I don't want to let this nasty little spot cause us any trouble. Hand me another clean towel, Andy."

Heath leaned forward, nearly resting his forehead on Andy's shoulder, for some unknown reason the pain was making his head spin like a top this morning.

"Okay," Captain Lutz threw the soiled cloths on Andy's procedure tray then, turned to wash his hands in a nearby wash basin, "leave your shirt off, Heath."

"Yes, Sir."

The doctor dried his hands and came around to look Heath in the eyes. Captain Lutz held in a sigh, he hated what he saw. Heath had large dark circles under his eyes, an ashen complexion with red flushes right across his high cheekbones, and, if it was possible, the boy's ribs were sticking out more this week than they had when he transferred into the rehabilitation side of the camp. The doctor forced a smiled then, made himself focus on his examination.

"Deep breaths, Son."

Heath obediently took deep breaths while the doctor listened all around his chest. The breathing made his head clear but it also made his chest hurt. Heath kept silent about both symptoms, he hadn't felt well for so long, these sensations were simply another hoop to jump in his day.

"Have you been coughing at all?"

"No, Sir."

"Okay," the Captain stood up straight and put his hands on his hips, "go ahead and put your shirt back on."

Heath slowly worked his way back into his pajama top with Andy's silent assist. The doctor grabbed a camp chair and pulled it close to talk. Heath didn't need anymore than this gesture to know the news wasn't good. He sat and stared out the open tent flaps without making eye contact with Captain Lutz.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to restrict you to this tent except for your walks to the dining tent three times a day plus, going to the latrine facilities or bathing when it is this groups turn in the bath tents, Heath. Your lungs sound awful, they are full of congestion. I'm not saying you have pneumonia because that would mean a transfer back to the acute side of the camp, and we'd hate to see that, but I'm not willing to let you get any sicker either."

"Yes, Sir."

Heath sat without making eye contact. He felt like he'd been kicked by a horse since even the area he walked on the acute side of the camp was much larger than what Captain Lutz was going to allow him. Heath's walks, his visits to the various corral areas around the large Army facility, were the only things keeping him sane. Problem was, Heath didn't know how to explain that to the doctor. How do you say, "I need to totally, completely, and wholly exhaust myself to keep from dreaming, Doctor, 'cause if I dream, I'll stop sleeping and if I don't rest ..."

"Heath?"

"Sorry, Sir."

"That's okay," Captain Lutz was glad to see his voice brought the boy back from wherever his mind had wondered, "do you understand my orders thus far?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I also want you to start eating, Heath. I don't care if all you eat is an entire tray of cookies from the Cookie Ladies cart, just eat, Son. You have to make it a priority, a job, and make sure you give your body what it needs to heal itself. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

The doctor reached out and put his hand on Heath's knee. Heath seemed startled to be touched, not for a medical reason, but to be touched in a gesture of kindness.

"Start slow, if necessary, and eat one thing from your tray. For instance, drink all your milk at dinner in a bit and at supper tonight then, if you can only pick at the rest, I won't holler. Tomorrow, work on drinking all of your milk and eating a good portion of your eggs at breakfast. Whatever, you work it out but you MUST eat."

"Yes, Sir."

"Try, Heath," the Captain leaned in to make sure their eyes met, "I can't tell you how important this is plus, I'd hate to order your meals be taken here in the tent so the orderlies could write down what you eat for me. Take eating on as a job, I have a feeling you are very good at completing any jobs you're assigned."

"Yes, Sir," Heath finally couldn't hold in a slight twitch on the left side of his mouth, "I'll try."

Captain Lutz stood up after patting the boy's knee reassuringly, he felt enthusiastic seeing Heath's almost smile. Gosh, it would be great to see someone, other than the volunteers and visitors, smile around this place.

"Thank you, Heath, now go on and rest until Andy calls this tent's turn in the dinner line."

Heath closed his eyes and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. Andy came around and lifted the boy's legs on the cot. He shook his head and followed the doctor from the tent to the area where they kept their reports and talked about cases. Andy was sick and tired of seeing this happen. Men fought their way through horrible illness only to give in to exhaustion, self-imposed starvation, and pneumonia on this side of camp.

The US Army even had a special commission studying these cases, which were happening in medical facilities nation wide, but there were no answers, not yet anyway. In fact, the only reports Captain Lutz shared were depressing since even veterans released to their families care where often dying after following the same pattern. It was as if the effort to survive their medical crisis left the soldiers with no energy for life. Andy shook his head, washed his hands, and sat to chart with the doctor.

"You know, Andy," Captain Lutz sat pondering out loud while not reading the chart in front of him, "I've long believed the Lord blesses each human body with an ability to heal themselves. Otherwise, why would epidemics surge through a town leaving some dead and some alive? The human body is such a wonder, why couldn't there be some sort of balancing system inside us all."

"Makes sense, Sir, but what made you think of that?"

"These men, they fight so hard to recover from devastating injuries then, they come over here and die. It is as if their body's balance is shoved so far out of line," the doctor shook his head trying to explain the avalanche of thoughts passing through his brain, "well, they can't go back to normal. I mean, like our Heath in Tent B, there's a kid who should have been dead ten times over, and yet, he comes walking in last week looking good, very good. We didn't change his treatment plan but Heath is failing, "failure to thrive" the US Army has now made that an official diagnosis. It is as if the boy's body fought the big stuff so hard, for so long, that the small stuff is throwing him because his body is out of balance."

"Sorry, Captain," Andy shook his head, "you're talking way above my head."

"No," the doctor smiled and tried to reconcentrate on his charting, "I'm talking gibberish, Andy. Nothing to understand but it does puzzle me."

They went to work making notes, writing orders, and getting the details from their morning rounds on Captain Lutz's one hundred and twenty patients taken care of. The days were discouragingly long around a US Army medical facility, especially when so few, so very few, of their patients ever got better and even fewer left for home as whole human beings. Each man shook off these depressing thoughts and got back to work.

"Heath?"

Miss Taylor bent down and touched the sleeping boy's shoulder.

"Heath," she pulled over a camp chair and worked to wake him, "wake up for a minute. I brought you some of Miss Salmon's cookies. Andy asked me to try and get you to eat them."

Heath came around slowly. For a minute, he thought the woman by his side was his Aunt Rachel. God, he sure wished it was but it was one of the Cookie Ladies, Miss Taylor.

"Afternoon," Heath sat up and shook his head, "how are you, Miss Taylor?"

"Fine, Heath," Miss Taylor smiled and sat back to let him gather himself, "but I have missed talking to you yesterday and today. Miss Salmon doesn't like it when I come home without news to report about you. Luckily, Andy knew I could find you in the tent."

"Luckily?" Heath turned and let his feet thump to the floor, admitting, "I'm not allowed to go anywhere else."

"Oh?"

"Captain Lutz's orders. I'm only allowed to the dining tent and the privy. Otherwise, I'm restricted to quarters."

"Do you know why?"

Heath laughed and shook his head. He'd been overdoing, he always did, and Heath remembered being in trouble for the same thing the entirety of his life.

"Yes, Ma'am, I do."

"Good," Miss Taylor reached over and touched his cheek, "then you must also understand how important it is to follow the doctor's orders."

"Yes, Ma'am, but it isn't easy."

"I don't imagine so. Here," she handed him the napkin which had been in her lap, "I brought you a present from Miss Salmon."

"Snickerdoodles!"

"Yes," Miss Taylor put her head back and laughed, "when you mentioned your Mother's love of this simple sugar cookie recipe, we rushed right over to our friend, Mrs. Pimbrook's. She knows just about every cookie recipe in existence. It seems this one is an old favorite back in the New England area. Didn't you say your Mother was originally from the South?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Heath touched a cookie, smelt it, but he didn't bite it, "she is from South Carolina but her mother was from Boston."

"Oh," Miss Taylor laughed, "that explains it. Well, Miss Salmon and I couldn't believe what a marvelous recipe this is and the men seem to love them. It is so easy, that touch of Cream of Tartar makes all the difference."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Heath."

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"I'm not leaving until you eat one of them. I have my orders, too, so don't get me in trouble."

"I'll try," he also tried to smile, "but I'm not hungry. I'm sorry, I drank a cup of milk at breakfast and at lunch. I feel like I'm about to pop."

"Milk," Miss Taylor clapped her hands together, "how wonderful, nothing mixes better with a good cookie than a nice glass a milk. Start eating, your stomach will love the combination."

Heath shrugged his shoulders and took a bite. The cookie nearly melted in his mouth but, for some odd reason, Heath felt like spitting it out and crying. He hated crying, it didn't help. Instead of giving in to his mind and body's desires, Heath forced himself to focus on chewing but it was hard.

Miss Taylor reached into her apron's enormous pocket and pulled out a book. She smiled and unconsciously ran her fingers across the pages before lifting the book and taking a breath of it. There was nothing like the feel and smell of a book. Miss Taylor loved books.

"I brought you a new book, Heath. My goodness, with a shortage of everything around here, you wouldn't think books would be so hard to find but they are. I was so happy when a man from our church offered his personal library to the men here at the hospital but I'm being very careful how I loan these out. I wouldn't want anything to go missing."

Heath nodded while working on his cookie. In his entire life, it had never taken him this long to down one Snickerdoodle. In fact, he was often in trouble for gulping them, "inhaling" his Mother accused, in one or two bites without tasting them. The gulping was true, Heath would have to admit that, but he absolutely tasted them. He used to love them but, not today, eating was his job today.

"You'll enjoy this book, Heath. Its title is 'The Mysteries of New York' and it is all about a man from Scotland who comes to work in New York as a young man, in fact, he is just about your age when he leaves his home. The book makes you think you are actually experiencing New York City as the character experiences and explores it. I'll leave it here on your lamp stand."

"Thank you, Miss Taylor."

She could see her visit had worn him. Miss Taylor hated to admit it but Heath had a defeated look to his body language, as if breathing was too much effort. She'd seen this look on other men and it wasn't good, not good at all.

"Go ahead and lie back down, Heath," Miss Taylor reached for the napkin full of cookies, "I'll wrap these and leave them next to your book for later."

Surprisingly, Heath didn't argue and eased back into his bed. The boy's eyes shut and he was working hard to breath. She moved her chair closer and took his hand.

"I'm sorry, Miss Taylor," Heath couldn't open his eyes, "I don't know what is happening to me. I'm so tired, so tired, but my sleep is full of nightmares. The more I sleep, the more tired I become. I think this cycle is really bad for me but I'm so tired and I don't know what to do."

"Rest back, Heath," Miss Taylor ran her free hand through his hair, "I'll sit here and read the first few pages from your book. You can concentrate on those words, maybe it will help keep your nightmares away."

Heath nodded and didn't move. Instead, he used all his energy to hold Miss Taylor's hand. It felt so good, soft, warm, and gentle. Despite her hand's truly feminine touch, Heath could feel himself pulling strength from it. He relaxed and listened as she read. Surprisingly, Heath could let his body rest but his mind grabbed on to her voice. When Miss Taylor stopped, after a few pages, he held her hand tighter and weakly asked her to keep reading. She read the entire first chapter then, put a soft kiss on his forehead and left.

He laid very still, thinking about the author's depiction of Glasgow, Scotland, its harbor, people, and beauty plus, the character's broken heart knowing he had to leave his homeland. There was no work in Glasgow and the main character, Charles, needed to leave to find work then, send the money back to his family. The ship Charles traveled across the Atlantic on sounded awful but the ocean was so blue, so enchanting, and ... Without knowing it, Heath fell into a restful sleep.

Heath sat on a bench placed at the side of the empty dining tent where the March sun would warm him the most. For nearly an hour, he touched the letter, smelt it, but hadn't opened it. Normally, he tore right into his letters from Strawberry. Today, simply touching the letter was enough. Instead of putting together the energy to open the envelope, he got lost in the familiar circles and bobs of his Mother's script on the address and return address. Leah faithfully wrote to Heath every other day, Aunt Rachel wrote for herself and Hannah on the in-between days, and mailcall had been the highlight of his day since the folks in Strawberry were first notified of his whereabouts last April.

During the year which passed since his release from Carterson, when he was too ill to read the letters himself, the orderlies or one of his tentmates relatives would read them to Heath. Often, he asked someone to read the same letter over later in the day. Heath loved hearing them and was truly grateful when he gathered the strength to read them over and over all by himself. In addition, also with the help of the orderlies until six weeks or so ago, Heath wrote back. He worked hard to only say positive things in his letters home, something that became much easier when he was transferred to the rehabilitation side of the camp nearly two weeks before and could talk about the view outside of camp. As far as Heath could tell, there wasn't much positive to write home about inside camp but his family didn't need to know that detail.

"How Charles coming along, Heath?"

The boy turned and smiled at his friend, Miss Taylor. She held out a napkin, with a decided grin on her face, and touched his shoulder when she was close enough to do so.

"He made it into that steel mill in Brooklyn. Never heard of a 'pudler' before you got me reading about Charles. Now, it sounds sorta interesting to work that close to those big steel furnaces and know what you are doing, everybody counting on your knowledge of the hot, molten, liquid before they poured the steel. I hope Charles likes this boss better than the last. At least, being a pudler made him marketable so Charles could move around in the story. I hope I get to read some more today."

"I hope so, too." She smiled and let her eyes go back to the napkin, adding, "Miss Salmon sent you a surprise today. Sort of a celebration of your being on this side of camp for two full weeks."

Heath smiled, blushed, and then, unfolded the napkin. There was a piece of Texas sheet cake inside.

"Boy howdy!"

Heath laughed but then, coughed hard. Miss Taylor calmly took a seat beside the tormented young man and waited for him to catch his breath. His lungs sounded worse, even to her civilian ears. While Heath leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, Miss Taylor closed her eyes in prayer. She had no idea why this one blond, blue-eyed, kid from a mining town up north drilled his way into her heart more than the others, he simply did. As her best friend, Miss Salmon, would say, "that is that and that is all there is to say." Heath finally sat back up but the coughing jag robbed him of his smile, the pain in his back and legs was fierce.

"I love chocolate cake. Please, I know these ingredients are hard to come by right now, thank Miss Salmon for me."

"Gladly," Miss Taylor smiled and stood when Heath reached for his crutch, "but I will admit Miss Salmon has been excited to make you something chocolate. I hate the flavor, tastes like dirt right off the prairie to me, but she adores it. When I mentioned your love of chocolate, Miss Salmon started saving the ingredients right away. We have enough cake to share two trays here at the camp and another tray at our church's fund-raiser tonight."

"I hope I get to thank her in person someday, soon."

Miss Taylor smiled and carried Heath's cake for him. The boy was breathing hard as he struggled back to his tent. They didn't talk, Heath was too out of breath. Finally, after another fit of coughs, Heath sat on the side of his cot and managed a smiled when Miss Taylor pulled a camp chair right up next to his knees.

"Miss Salmon likes to stay home when we aren't bust at the school but she does venture to church, faithfully. Her folks died in an epidemic and were treated in large tents like the Army has set up around here. I'm afraid, if you truly want to meet her, you'll simply have to get well, Heath. When you do, I'll get Captain Lutz to sign a pass, we can meet Miss Salmon for church then, go home to share a meal."

"Yes, Ma'am," Heath felt oddly dizzy, again, "I'd like that."

Miss Taylor saw the letter in his pajama pocket. She smiled and gently stroked his cheek. When she touched him, Heath closed his eyes and seemed to sway.

"I see you have another letter," she put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, "why don't you lie back and let me read it to you?"

"Nah," he flopped back on his pillow without bothering to pull up his legs, "I'm always stealing too much of your time, Miss Taylor. The other fellas count on seeing you, too."

"Nonsense," Miss Taylor gently put his legs up on the cot then, moved her chair closer, "I love your Mother and Aunt's letters. I've never been to Strawberry, and yet, I feel like I know three people there and could call them 'friend.'"

Heath nodded and turned on his side. His back simply would not let up, if it had eased even a bit, Heath would have drifted off but he knew he wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. Instead, he spent hours in a painful haze between sleep, nightmare, and wakefulness. The effort was all he could manage, walking around only made him cough, but it also made it hard to discern reality from dream. It was weird, how your mind went all fuzzy when you didn't sleep, Heath sensed his growing confusion but couldn't seem to correct himself. Suddenly, Miss Taylor's voice pulled him back from the mounting anxiety Heath felt when he tried to think about what to do to make himself well. Miss Taylor sat close and read his letter from Leah.

When Miss Taylor finished reading the letter, she sat quiet and ran her hand up then down Heath's arm. He was in a restless state of sleep, not good, but better than no sleep at all. While she let her hand convey how much she cared to Heath's arm, Miss Taylor reread portions of Leah's words. It seemed the early spring rains had eased Strawberry's drought but also brought a fever to the small town. Hannah became ill, first, but many of Strawberry's citizens were down. Leah reassured Heath not to worry if he heard rumors about a fever up north or of trouble in Strawberry. His family was fine but might not write as often due to spending their time helping care for the sick.

Miss Taylor's mouth dropped open and she held in a sigh as her eyes and heart read the truths in-between the distraught mother's words. She also took note of the fact Leah's normally energetic cursive, with its big loops and long dramatic lines, was weak, reserved, and appeared to have been put on paper with her hand struggling against some sort of tremor. Miss Taylor's mind focused on the last two paragraphs which included words such as: trust in Our Father, be well, pursue happiness, God is always with you, let go of your anger, find someone to love, and many words which seemed oddly full of more than an every other day letter's farewell. Miss Taylor's hand had long come to rest on Heath's shoulder. She looked into his face then, closed her eyes in prayer.

When she gathered herself, Miss Taylor opened her eyes and looked around Heath's tiny living area. She folded Leah's latest letter and put it in the drawer beneath the others. Poor child, he had no other processions but the letters he received since the previous spring. She laid his piece of sheet cake on top of the book he was reading then, took a few deep breaths and returned to her work for the day. Miss Taylor would smile, deliver cookies, sheet cake, Bible passages, prayers, and words of kindness and hope around the rest of the rehabilitation areas. Then, after one last peek at Heath's rumbled body lying motionless on his cot, Miss Taylor would return home.

When Miss Taylor got home, she and her friend, Miss Salmon, would sit and hold hands at their small kitchen table. They would bow their heads and offer words of gratitude to their Heavenly Father then, when they stood, the women would go right back to work on tomorrow's cookies. While they worked, she would have to admit the truth to Miss Salmon. Despite their best effort, and using their entire butter allowance for two weeks, the chocolate sheet cake didn't work. Heath wanted to eat it, smelled it, and smiled but not one bite passed his lips. Miss Taylor would accept an embrace from Miss Salmon while shedding more somehow strongly maternal tears, her Heath was dying, just as the others always did, and there was nothing she could do to save him.

Miss Taylor noticed the man, immediately. Camp was full of visitors, there were always more on Sunday afternoons as the surrounding town's citizens ventured inside the Army facility to offer comfort, friendship, and whatever they could to the men suffering inside. Also, relatives of men from the surrounding area, would pack up early and ride in for their weekly visits. Despite the size of the crowd, and the thriving business their church's baked goods cart was doing, Miss Taylor's eyes saw the man cross from Captain Lutz's tent and froze on him.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Simms," she smiled at one of the other women running their cart, "I'll be right back."

Miss Taylor practically ran to the open end of Heath's tent. She stared at the man, again. Her eyes had not been deceiving her, whoever this man was, he was an exact replica of Heath. Actually, he was an older, healthy, and obviously graced by a good life version of what Heath might look like if God granted him twenty-five or thirty more years on His earth. Miss Taylor took a deep breath and walked forward to greet the stranger.

"Good day."

Tom Barkley gazed up at the kind woman on the other side of Heath's cot and nodded a greeting. He was kneeling beside the desperately sick young man. His eyes went back to his boy, a young man who, according to the letter Leah sent to Stockton, would be nineteen the first week of May, in just a few weeks. From his first impression of Heath's situation, in addition to Captain Lutz's report, Tom instantly wondered if his boy would make it until May. He kept a tight grip on the boy's hand then, reached out to repeatedly run a finger in circles across his sunken cheek.

Heath's eyes fluttered open and he focused on Miss Taylor. The sight of her made one corner of his lip curl into a lopsided smile. Unaware of the man kneeling beside him, Heath tried to whisper to his friend.

"We reading a letter today, Miss Taylor?"

"No, Heath," she smiled and leaned down so he could see her, "it is Sunday. No mail call but, if you are game, I thought I'd read a bit of our book to you. Gosh, I'm eager to find out what happens to Charles."

"Me, too."

Heath closed his eyes and drifted away. Miss Taylor was now at eye level with Heath and the stranger, she took an audible breath when her eyes met the stranger's. Heath had the most unusual cobalt blue eyes, as did the stranger clinging to the boy's hand. It was an incredible moment, and for some unknown reason, despite the apparent hopelessness of Heath's situation, Miss Taylor stood up and offered the stranger a sincere smile. For the first time in weeks, she felt hope creeping into the tent, surrounding Heath, and lifting the curtain of death slowly encircling him.

It had been over three weeks since Leah's last letter. During these weeks, Heath spent all the energy he had fighting a whirlpool of disease which was slowly sucking him under. The boy refused to yield, Miss Taylor held his hand and read old letters from his mother plus, a paragraph here and there from the book they finished multiple times. Never in her entire life had Miss Taylor been more thankful to see one of God's children mentally confused by his illness. Heath's confusion stopped him from realizing the letters from Strawberry stopped arriving weeks before plus, their book had long ago ended.

"I'm, Miss Taylor," she offered her hand, "I'm a friend of Heath's."

The man slowly stood but kept a grip on Heath's hand. He offered his free hand to her and they shook their greeting.

Kneeling back down, he offered, "I'm, Thomas Barkley from Stockton. I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Taylor."

"Welcome, Mr. Barkley," Miss Taylor smiled and pulled a camp chair to the other side of the bed, "I'm very glad to meet you. Heath has been alone to struggle with his situation far too long, Mr. Barkley. I'm grateful to see his father by his side."

Tom looked up and met her eyes. Tears were streaming down his face as he nodded and braved a small, yet familiar, lopsided smile. Miss Taylor told him where to find her when he was ready to talk. She walked back to the church fund-raiser feeling as if her feet never touched the ground.

Tom couldn't help but smile at the angry grimace on Heath's face as he finished the range of motion exercises Captain Lutz prescribed for his boy's bad hip, lower back, and legs. Four times a day, Tom put Heath through the paces and, four times a day, Heath struggled not to let the anger bulging to be released from his body out. The anger was always there, of course, but when Tom exercised Heath the pain increased to a point which weakened his resolve not to speak to Tom Barkley. One of these days, the kid was simply going to scream out all the things he was feeling and that would be the day their discussions as father and son would begin.

In truth, Tom was glad Heath hadn't let go of his anger, yet. Anger was what was saving Heath, giving him the resolve to make it through another day. The young man remained gravely sick, despite the improvements he had made since his father's arrival, and Tom figured Heath needed to stay angry until he was truly breathing well and able to sustain his body weight, meager as it was, on his own two feet. Until then, Tom was grateful for the opportunity to act as Heath's personal aide, caregiver, and constant source of assistance. In the month, since his arrival from Stockton, Tom rarely left the boy's side. He didn't see a change in this pattern any time in the near future and Tom wasn't complaining.

As far as a comforting relationship, Miss Taylor more than provided that for Heath. The good results of his recovery with Tom's constant ministrations were, at times, clouded with the bad of Heath's mind gradually becoming clearer. Even though fatigue continued to fog Heath's mind, with Tom's constant care he quickly figured out the letters from his mother had stopped, finally comprehended Tom's answers when he asked him why he was helping him or who the "heck" he was, and when the camp was quiet, began to grieve the loss of his Strawberry family to the fever. Miss Taylor would sit with Heath, who never cried but became eerily quiet, reading books or holding his hand while they prayed together.

Thank God, Leah wrote to Tom. He closed his eyes and thanked His Father in heaven for this blessing multiple times each day. Tom shuttered to think of Heath lying here in the Army camp alone, unknown to his father, and dying. If Leah hadn't written, that was exactly what would have happened. Truthfully, knowing the extent of Heath's injuries, he may still lose him but the boy would not be alone, Tom would see to it he wasn't and never would be again.

The letter from Leah was definitely the Lord's hand at work in Tom's mind, heart, and soul since Leah had the sense to write him before she became ill. She spent the end of her days caring for her friends, Hannah James and Rachel Caufield, and realized her overwhelming exposure to the fever would eventually effect her health, too. So, a few weeks before Leah's last shaky letters went out to Heath, a long letter, a few photos, and a family Bible made their way to Stockton. Tom, with Victoria's urging, put aside his anger at Leah's decision to keep Heath's existence a secret and immediately raced south to his son's side. He had been there ever since and had no intention of leaving.

"Okay," Tom patted Heath's leg, "let's get the other over with, too."

Heath worked hard to turn himself on his stomach without Tom's assistance. When he finally made it, Tom lifted Heath's upper torso and settled on the bed under his son. He laid Heath's chest across his knees and thighs while the boy's head angled down sharply toward the edge of the bed with his arms limply at rest over his head. Once they were settled, Tom cupped his hands and began another of their four times a day rituals, he did percussion exercises on Heath's ribcage to clear his lungs. This took a while to do since there was so little of Heath's back Tom could touch. He ended up going more around the sides of Heath's chest but the exercises where effective. Heath would eventually cough and sputter up portions of the garbage clogging his lungs. The effort left the boy exhausted.

Finally, Tom would wiggle out from under Heath, who never had any energy to help despite trying each time, and gathered his boy's bathing things. Tom paid one of the many vendors at the edge of the Army camp a good deal of money to use a bathtub four times a day. He paid extra if the tub was clean when they arrived, which meant it usually was, and for extra hot water to be supplied. Tom took his time carrying Heath across the camp, being out of the tent seemed to heal Heath as much as anything else. Then, when they arrived at the bathing facility, Tom undressed his son and put him in the soothing water for long soaks.

Since the last supply package from Stockton arrived, he also added some of the salts Victoria recommended to each soak. Heath didn't fight Tom about the baths anymore, he simply slithered down in the water and let himself relax. His body was too battered for a massage, or any other type of treatment Tom could think of, but the baths were helping his skin heal plus, the steam seemed to help his breathing while the hot water relaxed his aching muscles and bones. Occasionally, when Heath's fatigue truly overwhelmed him, Tom's youngest son would forget his anger and wrap his arms securely around his father's shoulders and neck on their way back across camp to his cot. Tom's heart sung out to God during those moments, Heath's embrace was a sensation he would never forget.

Tom finished cleaning up the various things he used for Heath's last treatment of the day. He sat down in the camp chair by his boy's cot and gazed at the sleeping young man. How could there be one creature on earth who looked so much like another? He thought of his other children. Jarrod looked like Victoria's father and brothers, Nick favored that side of his heritage, too, except for something around his eyes. Of course, Audra's coloring favored Tom but her face, her bone structure, favored her mother's.

Now, here was his youngest son, Heath. Heath's spirit, like a gentle wind on a hot summer day, quietly drifted from his person despite the angry front he tried to keep between himself and his father. His personality and demeanor might be Leah's but the boy was an exact physical replica of Tom. Never in his life had Tom Barkley known the sense of looking at a child and seeing himself so clearly.

Suddenly, his moment of joy reviewing Heath's physical appearance was taken over by his intense anger with Leah Thomson, Heath's mother. How dare she keep Heath from him? There could have been no doubt from the moment Heath took his first breath who had fathered him. What could Leah have been trying to accomplish? Was she trying to hurt Tom? Why would she let Heath live in desperate poverty, so desperate he left home at sixteen then, sent his meager Union Army paychecks back to Strawberry?

"UGH!"

Tom got up and walked to the edge of the tent. There were no answers, they were never to be, but he simply couldn't control his anger. Silly, no good came from anger, especially anger directed toward a dead woman. He put his hands up on the large tent support over his head and gazed at the stars. Tom closed his eyes in prayer, tried to reorganize his mind, and thought about what to write in tonight's letter back to Stockton. He wrote two letters each and every night, as he sat watching Heath try to sleep between his incredibly disturbing nightmares and coughing jags. One letter, was for the entire family. The other letter would be addressed to Victoria, the honest words inside for her eyes only.

Tom took a moment to try and send Victoria a positive sense of himself, his love for her. Knowledge of his affair in Strawberry, her generous gift of forgiveness so many years before, was a very different beast for a married couple to handle than the presence of an illegitimate child from that affair. It was all so complicated, and yet, Tom looked back at Heath realizing it wasn't complicated at all. A child, any child, was a gift from God. Victoria kept writing those exact thoughts in every letter she sealed and sent his way. Tom might have received God's gift at eighteen, nearly nineteen, years of age but Heath was none the less a gift.

"Mr. Barkley?"

Miss Taylor whispered, many of the men in the Army's care went to bed with the sun. There was little to do, the lamplight made reading difficult, and they were all sick enough to need long hours of rest if they could get it. She walked around to where Tom was standing and they moved out into the open area between the tent and a stand of trees.

"Good evening, Miss Taylor," Tom shook her hand when she neared him, "what keeps you in camp so late this evening, Miss Salmon will be worried."

"The Army finally approved our church's request for a once a week evening chapel hour and prayer service. Tonight was our first meeting. We had a better turn out than expected plus, Miss Salmon's apple pies were a big hit after service when the men stayed to chat. I had a marvelous evening but I did notice something interesting."

"What was that, Miss Taylor?"

"All the men strong enough to come to service where Army veteran's injured in battles or what not. This camp has a high number of former prisoners of war, like Heath, but none of those men were strong enough to attend. I'm going to write to the Commanding Officer about this, and other things I've noticed. I can't help but believe the former prison patients should be handled differently by the US Army. They aren't merely wounded soldiers, they are wounded souls."

"Good luck getting the Army to listen."

She smiled at the familiar twinkle in Heath's father's eyes when he shared his tease. They walked next door to the empty dining tent, Tom poured them both coffee from one of the pots the cooks left warming for the night staff. They found a seat on a bench by an open flap where Heath could easily be visualized.

"Wounded souls," Tom thought out loud about her revelation, "that is an interesting way to express what has happened to these men, Miss Taylor. Do you mind if I ask you to expand on your opinion?"

"No," she laughed at the thought, "Miss Salmon should have been here to hear you say that, Mr. Barkley. She doesn't believe I have the self- control to withhold my opinions, even when I should."

"I know one of Heath's goals is to get himself well enough to leave camp on pass to visit with Miss Salmon. I have to admit, during our various conversations, I've grown eager to meet her myself."

"That would be marvelous, we love company at the house."

"Back to my original question, how would you recommend healing a wounded soul, Miss Taylor."

She put her coffee cup down on the table then, reached out for Mr. Barkley's hand, whispering, "You don't."

"Pardon?"

"You don't heal them, Mr. Barkley, they must heal themselves. After all these months working around this horrid hospital, a year of which I've watched these tortured prison camp survivors improve only to die, I've learned a few things. The men who survived the camps can be helped, just as the others, to heal physically but not their spirits. Only they, with the help of Our Father, can heal themselves. I've come to the conclusion that this is why we lose so many of them when their physical injuries have actually come under control. Their spiritual injuries, those deep down in their souls, are overwhelming in nature and they simply don't have the strength to fight those damages."

Tom took a large gulp of coffee to swallow the lump in his throat. Miss Taylor's words cut to his core, he knew she spoke the absolute truth and it frightened him.

"What can we do? What can I do to help Heath save himself?"

"Love him, Mr. Barkley, just love him. Heath has never experienced the love of an earthy father before, so, don't simply take care of him, love him."

"Miss Taylor, we're set to go."

She waved to the young man, a fellow member of her church, and started to get up.

"I'll be right there, Mr. Flowers," Miss Taylor turned back and looked down into Tom Barkley's eyes, "there is one more thing you could do, Mr. Barkley."

"Anything if it would help Heath."

"Forgive his mother."

"Forgive?"

"Yes," Miss Taylor smiled at the shocked look on the man's face, "Heath loved her more than anything else in his life. Miss Thomson was his world, his entire universe. Now, that world is gone. The questions about her choices, disturbing questions you must remember will always unite you with your son, will never be answered. What Miss Thomson did is now, very much, between she and her God. Here on earth, Heath might occasionally feel anger towards her but, overwhelmingly, he simply loves her. Leah Thomson was his mother.

"If you find it in your heart to forgive Heath's mother, Mr. Barkley, I sense Heath will find it much easier to forgive you."

"Forgive me?"

"Yes, forgive you."

Tom shrugged his shoulders, confusion poured from his eyes when they met hers.

"Mr. Barkley," Miss Taylor lowered her voice and stepped closer, "I am a Christian woman, Lord forgive me for speaking to you in this manner regarding this type of subject." She lowered her head, took a deep breath, and then found his eyes once more, adding, "Heath is a highly intelligent young man. He is, forgive me for saying this, also an experienced young man in the ways of the world, human nature. When you were with his mother, or shall I say when you left, did it never occur to you that there could be a child?"

Tom dropped his eyes and nodded his head. He felt as if the weight of the world just landed directly on his shoulders and was too ashamed to meet the kind woman's eyes.

"I shall not speak of this, again. What is passed is passed but we all must accept the consequences for our choices in life, Mr. Barkley. Therefore, I say, yes, you must hope and pray Heath forgives you. Knowing him, I can't imagine he will find that possible unless he senses you have forgiven his mother. I doubt you two will ever talk of such things, men don't talk of such things, but Heath will know what is in your heart. He'll know."

She walked around and touched the man's shoulder then, quickly walked to meet her friends. Tom sat for a long time with Miss Taylor's wise counsel replaying in his heart, mind, and soul. Slowly, when he found himself able, Tom got up and walked back out under the stars. He stood for a moment then, closed his eyes and began to pray earnestly to his Maker.

A few hours later, Tom Barkley wandered back into Heath's tent. The entire area was quiet, except for the dreadful sounds of the horribly ill and dying men here and there. He sat on the edge of Heath's cot and ran his fingers through the boy's hair. Then, sure of his purpose, and with overwhelming confidence in his soul, Tom lifted Heath into his arms. They weren't due for a treatment, bath, exercises, or anything else, he was simply a father holding his son. It was a gesture of pure love between a man and his offspring, one Heath never experienced before.

"What?" Heath jumped and tried to pull away, sleepily asking, "Is it morning?"

"No, Son, it is very late at night, not morning." Tom held him tighter to his chest, whispering, "I love you so, Heath. I was walking around under the stars praying then, I talked to your mother."

"My mother?"

Heath continued to use the strength he had to try and break from his father's strong embrace. Tom held him close and simply hung on.

"Yes, I was thanking Leah for you. I thanked God, too. I asked them both to forgive me, Heath, and I felt so much lighter since I sensed they decided to forgive me. Someday, if I'm lucky, you'll forgive me, too. Until then, I'll keep loving you, I'll hold you and love you."

"Let go."

Heath tried using his fists to pound on Tom's back but even he knew the effort, what he could put together, was feeble. Tom held him tighter, lowered his face on Heath's left shoulder, and closed his eyes in prayer.

"I mean it," Heath was whispering but let his voice imply his intent to scream for an orderly if Tom didn't listen, "let go!"

Tom held him and began to rock while quietly humming a favorite hymn. As he moved, he pulled Heath further into his arms. Finally, as he arranged them, Tom was sitting fully on Heath's bed with the boy's exceedingly frail body, except his legs, pulled tightly into his lap, chest, and arms. He could feel Heath wanting to respond to the love all around him but his anger, anger which at least got him to talk to Tom when he picked him up, was alive and well between them. Frequently, Heath's clenched fists bumped against Tom's back or arms but Heath's stiff body didn't have the strength to hurt him in any way. Tom began to whisper a song floating through his head into Heath's ear.

"I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear, calmly in my ear, The Son of God imposes. And He walks with me, And He talks with me, And He tells me that I am His own. And the joy we share, as we tarry there, None other, has ever, known."

Heath's fist no longer were clenched. Although he was still stiff, the boy didn't have the strength to hold himself back from Tom's embrace any longer. Heath sank his head into Tom's shoulder and felt an urge to rest. For the first time in many months, years really, Heath felt his heart, mind, body, and soul weaving near a more than pleasant sensation of peace.

"Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see ..."

When Tom finished a few more verses and songs, he felt Heath's body begin to truly relax. Tom held on and felt his own heart taking flight as he, in fact, forgave Leah and sensed Heath running out of anger. Perhaps, the boy was even contemplating forgiving Tom.

"The church's one foundation is Jesus Christ Our Lord ..."

Tom felt a tear run down his face as Heath wrapped his arms around his father and quietly sang, too. They're whispers were the closest thing to being in God's presence either man had ever known, much closer than either felt in any closed in sanctuary.

"So I'll carry that old rugged cross ..."

Each hymn, spiritual, or camp song Tom started, Heath whispered along and added verses Tom hadn't remembered or heard since his own childhood. Finally, Tom felt Heath move close and hold on tight. He took a break, listened to Heath's barely audible voice, and planted a sincere kiss on his son's sunken cheek. With that one marvelous gesture, Heath closed his eyes and let himself drift into a dreamless sleep in his father's arms. He was warm, loved, accepted, and protected by a strong man, his father, it was a marvelously new and wondrous feeling in his young life. Tom's openly expressed love lifted Heath's soul from the dark place it had been dwelling in for far too long.

They pulled in front of the small cabin. Tom jumped down from the driver's box and headed back to help Heath get out of the wagon. Heath slighting groaned at his hip and lower back's reaction to his getting out of the warm, comfortable, and securely fastened bed his father built for him in the back of the wagon Tom Barkley bought to transport his still recuperating son home, home to Stockton. Heath was excited to be at their first stop, it signaled his true freedom from that horrid Army camp. Tom was excited, too, he couldn't wait to share his news from this morning's package from Victoria with the ladies of the house.

"Take it easy, Heath," Tom chuckled and made his boy take his decent from the wagon back to his feet slower, "we've got all evening to spend with our friends before we head on north in the morning."

"Yes, Sir."

Heath dropped his head and tried not to grimace when his still minuscule weight was put on his legs. He waited while his father removed his crutch from the wagon then, they headed to the door. Before they took two steps, the door flew open and Miss Taylor came running out first.

"Welcome," her smile said it all, "we're so happy you could stop here for the night. It is a long ride back to Stockton in the back of a wagon."

Miss Taylor folded Heath in her arms. He looked good in "real" clothes instead of the Army issued blue pajamas. Miss Taylor was so excited, Heath swayed and fought for his balance when she let him go.

"Mr. Barkley," she held out her hand while nonchalantly holding Heath's shoulder to steady him with her other hand, "welcome to our home."

"Thank you, Miss Taylor."

"Mr. Thomson?"

A shy woman with dark hair and the world's most love filled eyes came down the front steps. She walked quickly towards Heath.

"Miss Salmon," Heath sincerely smiled and offered his hand, "I'm proud to meet you. Your cookies and cakes saved my life."

"Nonsense, you saved your own life. My baked goods simply had no competition, no one likes Army cooking."

They laughed and Miss Salmon shook Heath's hand then, his father's.

"Miss Salmon," Miss Taylor did the honors, "this is Heath's father, Mr. Thomas Barkley."

"I'm thrilled to meet you, Miss Salmon."

"Likewise, Mr. Barkley," Miss Salmon finished shaking his hand then, took a step back to take in Heath's eyes, "well, Mr. Thomson, let's get you inside where it is warm. I was just packing up a big batch of Snickerdoodles for you two men to take on your journey. Besides, I can't imagine how upset your step-mother and family would be if we left you out here in the cold and your cough returned. They are expecting you and your father for the holidays. Miss Taylor and I mean to make sure you start your journey safely in the morning."

"Yes, Ma'am," Heath started forward with Miss Salmon, "Miss Salmon?"

"Yes, Mr. Thomson."

"I'd appreciate it if you would call me, Heath. Miss Taylor does, there isn't anything improper about it, and I'm using Thomson as a middle name after today. My legal surname is Barkley, now. Pa gave me the papers this morning, they were an early Christmas gift from the family. In fact, my oldest brother, Jarrod, fixed the legal papers up and all."

"Heath Thomson Barkley," Miss Salmon smiled and waited while the young man negotiated their front steps, "now, that name has a distinguished ring to it. I like it, do you?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Heath stopped on the top step, "is that chocolate cake I smell?"

"Texas sheet cake," Miss Salmon smiled and winked, "I figured between me, you, and your father, Miss Taylor would be outvoted on the chocolate issue for one evening."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Heath was out of breath, he was better, able to travel home with his father's maximum assist, but he wasn't well. That would came in "due time," as his friend, Miss Taylor, kept reminding him. Heath and Miss Salmon got comfortable by the kitchen fire as Miss Taylor and Mr. Barkley talked while removing the men's overnight things from the wagon. She accepted the large envelope of legal papers, architectural drawings, and possible building locations on a map of Stockton with a smile.

"I'll have to further discuss the opportunity you've put together for us to open a alternative school in Stockton with Miss Salmon. Running a Christian school, with an open enrollment policy, has been a dream of Miss Salmon and mine since we left our beloved home in Missouri before the war. With all the hatred, the killing of anti-slavery voters like ourselves in the border states, our dream of a school open to all regardless of race, religion, creed, or anything else has dimmed over the years. Now, Miss Salmon and I need time to pray and consider what path best enables us to serve our God. Thank you, again, for offering us this exceptional opportunity, Mr. Barkley. We want to thank you for all that you've done no matter what we eventually decide to do."

Tom laughed and shook his head.

"What?"

"You never need to thank me, Miss Taylor. I'll owe you for the rest of my days. In addition, Stockton would be honored, and much improved, if we found a way to get two exceptional teachers, such as youself and Miss Salmon, to move into our community. I can't shake the feeling we were meant to meet. I have the money, land, and connections to open a facility. You two talented ladies have the know how and compassion to run it. I can't think of a more perfect combination."

Miss Taylor nodded then, went back to an earlier statement he made, "What did you mean, Mr. Barkley, when you said you owed me?"

"I thought you knew how I felt about that," Tom smiled and touched her shoulder, "after all, you gave me my son. What price can a grateful father ever put on that gift?"

"Mr. Barkley," Miss Taylor put her hands on her hips and tried to look stern, "I did no such thing."

Tom put his bag down and stood to look his friend straight in the eye while shrugging his shoulders to indicate his confusion.

"Our Father gave you that boy, not any human on His green earth. Please do me a favor and remember that fact, Sir.

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Tom winked and broke out into a hearty fit of laughter. Miss Taylor joined him then, accepted his warm embrace. When they stood back, he reached down for their bag then, offered his arm to a truly fine woman destined to be, along with Miss Salmon, a lifelong friend of the Barkley family. Miss Taylor took his arm and they walked into the cabin to join the others. The upcoming Christmas season, for all four friends, was going to be the most memorable the Lord ever provided. Although it was only early November, all four couldn't help but feel the gift of their evening together was truly the beginning of this particular holy season.

Thank you for reading my story. Please forgive any typos or Barkley errors.

Copyright L.E.Connell, July 2001.