In October 1867, a young woman arrived at my Leavenworth infirmary holding a handwritten marriage proposal from a brain-injured Civil War veteran.
The thump and George’s angry shout spurred me forward. I burst through the infirmary door, Hester close behind.
George and Eli Finch were indeed in Thomas’s room, their faces flushed with exertion. Thomas’s small, wooden trunk lay open on the floor, his meager belongings – a faded Union uniform coat, a few shirts, a worn Bible – were being roughly shoved inside.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice sharp.
“Packing him up, Doctor,” George grunted, his back to me as he wrestled with a buckle. “Silas said to have him ready. The carriage will be here any minute.”
Eli, meanwhile, was trying to force a pair of boots into the already overflowing trunk. He caught my eye, a flicker of discomfort on his face. “Just following orders, Doctor. For Thomas’s own good.”
Thomas sat on his cot, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped tightly together. His eyes were wide with a silent terror, darting between his brothers and the chaotic pile of his possessions. He made no sound, but his breathing was shallow and fast.
“You cannot simply seize his belongings,” I insisted, stepping into the room. “He is my patient. And I have new information. Information that invalidates all of Silas Crain’s claims.”
“Too late for that, old man,” George snapped, finally turning to face me. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Silas has the law on his side now. And we’re his kin.”
As he spoke, a sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the infirmary windows. The light in the room shifted, growing dimmer, taking on an unnatural, bruised green hue.
I walked to the window. The sky had turned a dark, angry charcoal. Heavy, bruised clouds churned overhead, moving with an alarming speed. An unseasonal October prairie gale was bearing down on Leavenworth.
“It’s going to storm,” I murmured, more to myself than to them. The air had a strange, metallic smell.
Eli looked outside, his face paling. “That’s no ordinary storm, George. That looks like… trouble.”
The first few drops of rain, fat and heavy, spattered against the glass. A distant rumble, deep and resonant, shook the very ground.
“Never mind the weather!” George barked, giving the trunk a final, forceful shove. “We need to get Thomas out of here before the deputy arrives. Silas wants him gone, now.”
He grabbed Thomas by the arm, pulling him none too gently from the cot. Thomas flinched, a small whimper escaping him.
“You’re not taking him anywhere,” I declared, stepping between George and Thomas, my body a frail barrier. “Not with this storm coming. And not without a proper hearing.”
Just then, a sharp crack of thunder split the sky directly overhead, so loud it made the entire building vibrate. The lamp on the bedside table flickered violently.
And then, through the growing roar of the wind, I heard it – the distinct, piercing wail of the town’s storm siren, a frantic, desperate warning.
The sky outside the window was no longer just dark; it was an ominous, swirling vortex of black and bruised green. This wasn’t just a storm. This was something far worse.
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