“I’ll be outside if you need me,” Sister Peg said.

Sara sat on the bed. The grime was gone, the mats in her hair teased straight or cut away. The sisters had dressed her in a plain wool tunic.

—HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY? Sara wrote on the chalkboard.

—OK

—SISTER SAID YOU COULDN’T SLEEP.

Pim shook her head.

Sara explained to Pim that she needed to change her dressings. The girl flinched as Sara eased away the bandages but made no sound. Sara applied antibiotic salve and a cream of cooling aloe and rewrapped her.

—I’M SORRY IF THAT HURT.

Pim shrugged.

Sara looked her in the eye. IT WILL BE OK, she wrote. Then, when the girl did nothing: IT GETS BETTER.

—NO MOR NITEMERES?

Sara shook her head. “No.”

—HOW?

There was, of course, the easy thing to say: Give it time. But that wasn’t the truth, or at least not the whole truth. What took the pain away, Sara knew, was other people—Hollis, and Kate, and being a family.

—IT JUST DOES, she wrote.

It was nearly 0800; Sara had to leave, though she didn’t want to. She packed up her kit and wrote:

—I HAVE TO GO NOW. TRY TO REST. THE SISTERS WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU.

—COME BACK? Pim wrote.

Sara nodded.

—DO YU SWEAR?

Pim was looking at her intently. People had been throwing her away her entire life; why should Sara be different?

“Yes,” she said, and crossed her heart. “I swear.”

Sister Peg was waiting for Sara in the hall. “How is she?”

The day had only just started, yet Sara felt completely drained. “The wounds on her back aren’t the real problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has more nights like that.”

“Is there any chance of finding a relative? Somebody who can take her in?”

“I think that would be the worst thing for her.”

Sister Peg nodded. “Yes, of course. That was stupid of me.”

Sara gave the woman a roll of gauze, boiled cloth pads, and a jar of ointment. “Change her dressings every twelve hours. There’s no sign of infection, but if anything starts to look worse, or she gets a fever, send for me right away.”

Sister Peg was frowning at the objects in her hand. Then, brightening a little, she looked up. “I meant to thank you for the other night. It was nice to get out. I should do it more often.”

“Peter was happy to have you there.”

“Caleb has grown so much. Kate, too. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how lucky we are. Then you see something like this…” She let the thought pass. “I’d better get back to the children. Where would they be without mean old Sister Peg?”

“It’s a good act, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Does it show? I’m really just an old softie at heart.”

She walked Sara out. At the doorway, Sara paused. “Let me ask you something. In the course of a year, say, how many children get adopted?”

“In a year?” The woman seemed startled by the question. “Zero.”

“None at all?”

“It happens, but very rarely. And it’s never the older children, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes a baby will be left here and a relative will come and claim it within a few days. But once a child has been here awhile, the odds are good they’ll stay.”

“I didn’t know.”

Her eyes searched Sara’s face. “The two of us aren’t so very different, you know. Ten times a day our jobs give us good reason to cry. And yet we can’t. We wouldn’t be any use to anyone if we did.”

It was true; but it didn’t make Sara’s heart feel any less heavy. “Thank you, Sister.”

She headed for the hospital. Her mood was bleak. As she entered the building, Wendy urgently waved her over to the desk.

“There’s somebody waiting for you.”

“A patient?”

The woman looked around to make sure she wasn’t overheard. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He says he’s from the census office.”

Uh-oh, thought Sara. That was fast. “Where is he?”

“I told him to wait, but he went to look for you on the ward. Jenny’s with him.”

“You let Jenny talk to him? Are you nuts?”

“There wasn’t anything I could do! She was standing right there when he asked for you!” Wendy lowered her voice again. “It’s about that woman with the abruption, isn’t it?”

“Let’s hope not.”

At the door to the ward, Sara took a clean smock from the shelf. Two things worked in her favor. The first was her rank. She was a doctor, and although she didn’t like to do it, she could throw her weight around if she had to. A certain peremptory tone; veiled or not-so-veiled references to unnamed persons of substantial influence; the mantle of the higher calling, busy day, lives to save: Sara had learned the tricks. Second, she hadn’t done anything illegal. Failing to file the proper paperwork was not a crime—more like an error. She was safe, more or less, but this wouldn’t help Carlos or his family. Once the fraud was discovered, Grace would be taken away.

She stepped into the ward. Jenny was standing with a man who possessed the unmistakable look of a bureaucrat: soft, balding, and flat-footed, with pasty skin that rarely saw sunshine. Jenny’s glance met hers with a look of barely concealed panic: Help!