Soap.
Boiled instruments.
Dr.
Mercer sent books.
Women from isolated farms began coming to Rosalie for help with births, fevers, wounds, and sick children.
She never called herself a doctor.
But she listened.
That already made her better than Silas had been.
Gideon’s hearing improved only slightly.
He could detect low noises on good days.
Thunder.
A door closing.
Rosalie clapping directly behind him.
Her voice, occasionally, when she stood close enough.
Mostly, however, they still used notebooks and signs.
They no longer needed many words.
One October evening, Rosalie stepped onto the porch and found Gideon watching the sunset.
The mountains had turned copper beneath the fading light.
She sat beside him.
He handed her the notebook.
One year tomorrow.
Rosalie smiled.
“One year since our wedding?”
He watched her mouth and nodded.
She took the pencil.
Worst wedding in Coldwater history.
He laughed.
Then wrote:
Worst husband?
Rosalie
