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eating just anything despite his hunger, knowing the ill effects often suffered
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    He wound his way back toward the corncrib at the edge of the meadow, passing the tent of General Daniel Hill, and listened hard for whispers of what might be in store for them. His feet started to burn in the damp coolness of the meadow grass, and he stumbled toward the shelter. Ben was gone, four other soldiers crowding in, drawn by the idea of a roof and some corn left over from a previousharvest. He unrolled his ragged blanket and folded into it, careful to put his weight on it lest another take it from him in the night
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    Ben came in much later and squatted next to him. In the darkness, he could see his brother’s smile and wondered vaguely what it was that had Ben so amused. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched his brother settle down for the night. Saw him drag Joe’s haversack closer. He fingered something long and slender, smiled, then slipped it into the sack. “Things are gonna get better real soon, Brother. Real soon.”

    Above Beth’s head, the floor creaked. Gerta couldn’t sleep either. An eerie quiet stretched over the house and the countryside. Beth stroked the length of the two quilt blocks she held side by side on her lap. She’d dared to light a lantern after putting a blanket over the window that looked onto the porch from the kitchen. She rocked next to where Joe lay, keeping the wick low as she worked the needle.
    She wondered if Gerta’s restlessness stemmed from the new wounded man out in the springhouse, fear of what was coming, or a general restlessness. As she pulled the needle through the material, she let her mind wander from the task at hand to the mental image of her mother doing the same thing. Quilt after quilt produced beneath her mother’s steady hand. Beth smiled at her impatience with the task. She’d had no desire to sit and sew, especially when the task was pushed on her because it helped “rest” her leg. None of her mother’s knack for putting together colors and following patterns flowed in her blood. Yet here she sat, doing the despised task, the thread an invisible tie to home.
    Beth stabbed the needle into the block and lowered it to her lap. At least Joe slept soundly, despite the faint heat of feverchapping his lips. She rose to apply more salve to relieve the dryness and wondered if she should check on the other man. He’d been dragged there by Rebs late in the day, his complexion wan, lips a pale slash against even paler skin. A crease running along the side of his cheek and skull had left him addled. His condition appeared worsened by the filth of his uniform, the hollows of his cheeks, and the bites from the bugs that seemed to plague every one of the Rebs she’d seen.
    She’d spent the evening going through the same process with his clothes as she had with Joe’s, burning everything, her grandmother using Grandpa Bumgartner’s old shirts and long underwear to clothe the men, a practice that would rob Gerta of every spare set of clothing she’d saved. Beth said nothing on the matter.
    Joe moved his head, his open eyes staring dully at her. His tongue darted out to lick his lips.
    “I just put some—”
    Too late. Joe winced and pulled a face as the bitter taste of the balm on his lips permeated his mouth.
    Beth couldn’t help the laugh that squeezed out. Joe’s mouth opened and his lips curved, as if he wanted to smile but it required more effort than he could muster. She smoothed her fingertips over his forehead. Still too warm, but not raging. Not yet, anyway.
    “How do you feel?” His chest heaved on an inhale. She placed a hand on his arm to calm him. “We’re taking care of you. You’re safe.”
    His hand worked its way up and pushed at the quilt that covered his chest. She helped him peel back the layer and saw the rash of bug bites along his upper chest and shoulders. He rubbed his palm along the red spots until she stopped the motion. “My grandmother says it