Some time later, Caleb woke again, on a hard bunk in a tent that was not his own. Sitting up, he saw an apothecary chest in one corner, and beside his bed, a bloody array of surgical utensils sat soaking in a tin bucket of coppery water. The thick smell of ether hung in the air around him like a wet blanket, tamping down his thoughts. He was in the infirmary, which meant at least he wasn’t dead yet.
White dressings covered the wound on his shoulder. As Caleb sat up, he felt the wound pull, and wondered if there were stitches in it. The other cuts and scratches had been cleaned and apparently had stopped bleeding some time ago. By the dull echo that still reverberated through him, Caleb suspected he’d been given ether for the pain. The dry, cottony taste in his mouth confirmed it.
Moving
