I drew in a deep breath, seeing it, but that was all. Then, as we got to the side door, there were all kinds of people about. Civilian men were dragging away fallen pieces of the roof to make way for the military carrying in litters of wounded soldiers. And women, most of whom we knew, were carrying in stacks of linen, blankets, and bandages, pitchers of water and basins. David and I just stood there, open-mouthed at the spectacle. We saw Emily Broadhead. She had on a bloodstained apron. Her hair was bound with a white kerchief. "Is anybody dead inside?" David asked. "Not yet," she answered. "The doctors aren't allowing it." Doctors. "Is my pa in there?" I appealed. "No, honey. Not here. But far's I know there are plenty of other makeshift hospitals being set up in town. He might be in one of those. Now I've got to run home a minute." And she was gone. We were about to enter the side door she'd just come out of when it seemed filled of a sudden. Because the person who stood there filled my eyes.
