Then he pulled the doors open. Prudence was standing there with a colored boy she had hired to muck out the makeshift stall. She gave Sam an appraising glance. “You would not have been able to handle that door just a few days ago,” she told him. “You have made great progress these last two weeks.” “Yes, Sergeant Kent, thanks to you, I have.” Sam Freeman was not ordinarily a playful man, but he had been calling Prudence “Sergeant Kent” for two weeks now, first as she walked him up and down the floors of the old warehouse, then as she stood off to the side encouraging and cajoling as he walked himself. The name was not only a tease, but also a salute of sorts. He knew now that had she not pushed him, he might never have gotten up from that cot. She had not let him leave the old warehouse yet. The town was still too dangerous, she said, and he was in no position to defend himself. But she had brought him books and he had passed the time in reading. He enjoyed losing himself on the pages of great works, but it did not give him the same pleasure it once had.
