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Turner’s blacksmith shop. Frank came out of the big double doors, wiping his neck with a red handkerchief. “Well, Mrs. Vandermeer, I haven’t seen you since you arrived,” he said. “How’s the homestead?”
    â€œWalter is ill,” said Jennifer bluntly. “Is there a doctor in the area?”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry to hear it. Anything serious?”
    â€œHe has a fever. Please, is there a doctor?”
    Frank Turner grimaced at having to disappoint Jennifer. “The closest we have to a doctor is Lucy Baker. She’s pretty good fixing people up.”
    Jennifer recalled the name. Lucy Baker was the small, dark-eyed woman who had introduced herself in Franz Hoffman’s store. Jennifer had been cold to her and her friend.
    â€œHer place is west of here.” Frank Turner pointed down one of the two prairie paths that intersected the town. “Go out that way and her soddy will be on your right. You can’t miss it. You’ll see it from way off.”
    Jennifer thanked the blacksmith and directed her ox through town and out the other side. She rode onto prairie that was especially flat, and the trail, bordered here and there with those pink flowers attended by monarch butterflies, was more deeply rutted than the one that led to her homestead.
    Later, Jennifer saw a soddy some distance off. She rode and soon noticed that the wild bluestems to her right were replaced by wheat. The soddy was now not far off, and Jennifer roused herself.
    Frank Turner had used the term “soddy,” and not “dugout.” And it was true that on land as flat as the Baker’s homestead there was no rise in which to gouge out a shelter. So, instead, they built their house with that prairie marble: blocks of sod cut out from an acre of ground and stacked like bricks into foot-thick walls. Supported on poles and brush, the sod even served as a roof, from which grass still sprouted. Jennifer had seen several such soddies on her westward journey. There were crude looking, but not as crude as a dugout, and the Bakers had morning glory vines gracing their door. Also, rather impressively, an elm grew next to their soddy—the only tree within the entire horizon. Indeed, it was the only one Jennifer had seen since her family’s wagon had crossed a stream in eastern Kansas, where cottonwoods and willows had lined the banks. The stream was cut so low in the ground that only the tops of the trees peeked out, at first looking from a distance like mere bushes. At the sight of the elm, Jennifer’s heart lifted, even if the tree did look a little bedraggled from the constant wind. Like the vines, it was no doubt planted by the Bakers, perhaps brought from the East as a sapling.
    There were a few smaller buildings near the soddy, some also made of sod bricks, others like the chicken coop and cow stall, of poles and hay. Jennifer heard several voices coming from behind one of the sod buildings, and then she saw a naked little girl, about five years old, step around the corner. She stood by the building, her thumb in her mouth, staring with big, dark eyes at Jennifer. She was soon followed by a small, wiry woman, Lucy Baker, who was holding a blanket. “Mary!” she called. “Don’t go wandering off!”
    Jennifer braced herself. She hoped that her neighbor didn’t remember the snub. “Good morning,” she said.
    Lucy Baker, wrapping her child in the blanket, looked up. “Oh, Mrs. Vandermeer. How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine…”
    Just then, a stoop-shouldered teenaged boy, himself wrapped only in a blanket, stepped out from behind the building. “Come on, Maw, are my clothes ready?” But the boy, noting the lady visitor, quickly retreated back behind the building.
    â€œYou’ve caught me on a wash day,” explained Lucy. She sent the little girl back with a pat on her rump. “Tell your Paw we have