The quandary before him was Amanda. He knew that she was weeping because it was the proper thing to do, not because she was sad. She had faith in Samuel’s decision and a firm belief that he would defeat the enemy single-handedly and be home within the year, bright medals pinned to his chest and a confident smile on his face, untouched by horror or death. Oliver knew. Oliver had heard the things that were happening to confident smiles over there, had seen the numbers of this war and had measured its weight in oil.

He did not want to go to his wife and tell her it was going to be all right, because he did not believe it would be. He believed he would lose his son, and Amanda, crying for the sake of it, did not. Why should he comfort her false grief with his own false faith?

Oliver suddenly realized that he had folded his arms on his desk and dropped his forehead upon them, and that his sleeves were wet with tears. He looked out into the hallway and saw himself, seventeen years earlier, holding a baby boy who was so ill he was no longer crying. Samuel had caught scarlet fever shortly after his first birthday. For days Oliver had sat by his bedside and watched him breathe, had held the burning body in his arms while walking up and down the hall, had refused sleep and food to care for his son. Amanda has been content to worry from her own bedroom and let the nurse care for Samuel. Oliver had already privately made Samuel his whole world and the possibility that he could die was untenable.