7
Distillery Hospital, 24 February 1871
That afternoon, Chad saw patients and was pleased to see that the infection on Bryce’s arm had subsided with the poultice he’d had the nurses place on the wound.
“Sometimes the country remedies work,” he said, and he didn’t bother to keep the relief out of his voice. “We won’t have to take this arm off today.”
Bryce grinned and flexed his fingers, which were almost back to their normal sizes. “Thank you, Doctor. How is Claire?”
Chad didn’t want to worry the boy—he knew all too well how mental stress could impact physical healing—but he didn’t want to lie, either. “She’s making some adjustments. Being here is hard for her.” He stood and closed the office door. “Can I ask you a few questions about her?”
Bryce’s grin vanished. “I don’t know, Docto
