The canvas partition in the school recovery classroom did not stop sound, but it stopped the wind.
It had been hung from a length of No. 9 galvanized fence wire, anchored to the center oak posts with heavy fencing staples. Mara had hung two gray wool blankets over the overlap to keep the lantern glare from the rest of the staging ward. Inside the screened alcove, the air smelled of camphor ointment, dry straw, and the sweet, woodsy smoke of birch chunks burning in the small sheet-iron drum stove Gideon had set up on four concrete bricks.
Evelyn Mercer lay propped against two pillows stuffed with dried sumac leaves and clean cotton waste. Her boots were off; her feet, wrapped in thick wool socks, formed two still ridges beneath the quilt.
On the cedar box beside her bed sat an enamel plate with a cold baked potato, split down the middle and salted with coarse rock salt, and a small tin cup of cold mint tea.
June sat on the edge of the mattress, her boots dangling three inches above the wooden floor. She was holding a bone-handled paring knife, peeling the skin from a bruised winter apple Luis had traded from a farm wagon that afternoon. The peel came off in small, clumsy curls that dropped into her apron.
