The infirmary was an old, converted school building, two-storied and shaped as a U with a courtyard garden. Most of the windows were curtained, blocking out the bright midday sun. Iris studied it as she helped unload the countless loaves of bread Marisol had baked that morning. Marisol’s neighbor Peter had a rusted green lorry, and they had loaded up the back with basket after basket of bread and two massive pots of soup before driving across town to the infirmary.
Iris shivered as she carried a basket into the back of the building, where a few nurses were preparing lunch trays. Her palms were sweaty; she was nervous. She didn’t know how to prepare for this—speaking to wounded soldiers.
She was also full of anxious hope. Perhaps Forest was here.
“Did you prepare questions ahead of time?” Attie whispered as they passed each other.
“No, but I’ve been thinking about them,” Iris replied, walking the path back to the lorry to fetch another basket.
“I didn’t either,” Attie said as they passed again. “I suppose we’ll both just do what feels right?”
Iris nodded, but her mouth went dry. If she was wounded and lying in an infirmary bed, in pain, would she want some stranger interviewing her? Probably not.
Marisol remained with the nurses in the kitchen, preparing lunches, but Attie and Iris were allowed to wander the ground floor. A few rooms were off-limits, but they were told most of the soldiers were in the great assembly hall, and that should be the focus of their task.
It was a wide room, lined with windows and beds. The floors were scuffed hardwood, creaking beneath Iris’s steps as her gaze wandered. Immediately, she looked for Forest. She sought her brother in a sea of white sheets and slants of sunlight.
Some of the soldiers were missing limbs. Some of them had bandaged faces, burns, scars. Some of them were upright and talkative; some of them were lying down, sleeping.
Overcome, Iris was worried that she wouldn’t recognize her brother, even if he was here. But she drew in a deep breath, because she knew these soldiers had been through more than she could even begin to imagine. The air tasted like cherry medicine syrup and lemon floor cleaner and cold stainless steel, all cloaking a hint of sickness. She closed her eyes and envisioned Forest, exactly as he had looked the day he departed.
I would know you anywhere.
When Iris opened her eyes, her attention caught on a particular soldier. The girl was sitting upright in her bed. She looked to be Iris’s age, dealing a worn deck of playing cards on her quilt. Her hair was a soft shade of blond, like corn silk, and cut to her shoulders. Her skin was pallid, and her hands were shaking as she continued to set out cards. But her eyes were warm and brown and fierce, and the moment they met Iris’s gaze, Iris found herself walking toward her.
“You play?” the girl asked. Her voice was brittle.
“Only when I can find a good partner,” Iris replied.
“Then pull up that stool and join me.”
Iris obliged. She sat at the girl’s bedside and watched as she reshuffled the cards with her quaking hands. Her fingers were long, like a pianist’s.
“I’m Prairie,” the girl said, glancing at Iris. “Like the grass.”
“I’m Iris. Like an eyeball.”
That coaxed a small smile from Prairie. “I haven’t seen you in here before, Iris Like an Eyeball.”
“I only arrived yesterday,” Iris replied, taking the cards Prairie dealt to her.
“Reporter, hmm?”
Iris nodded, uncertain what more to say. If it would even be right for her to ask Prairie if she could—
“I don’t speak to reporters,” Prairie said, clearing her throat. Her voice remained hoarse and weak. “But I’m always looking for someone to beat me in cards. Here, you go first.”
Well, that settles that, Iris thought. At least Prairie’s candid bluntness dimmed her nerves and expectations, and Iris could merely enjoy a hand of cards.
The girls were quiet as they played. Prairie was competitive, but Iris was close to matching her. They ended up playing two more rounds, until the nurses delivered lunch.
“I suppose I should let you eat in peace,” said Iris, rising from the stool.
Prairie dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup. It helplessly clattered with her shaky movements. “You might as well stay. Those who would talk to you will be eating right now.”
Iris glanced around to find Attie, who was seated with a soldier farther down the room. A young handsome soldier who was smiling at her, and Attie had her notepad out, writing down the things he was saying.
“I do have a question for you,” Iris said, easing back down onto the stool. “If I wanted to find out where a certain soldier is stationed, who would I write to?”
“You could write to the command center in Mundy, but chances are you won’t get a reply. They don’t like to reveal where soldiers are stationed. It’s a security measure. Things are also a bit chaotic right now. The mail isn’t very reliable.”
Iris nodded, trying to hide her despair. “If a soldier is wounded, is there a way for me to find that out?”
Prairie met Iris’s gaze. “Do you know the name of their platoon or company?”
Iris shook her head.
“What about their battalion?”
“No, I don’t know any of that information. Just their first and last name.”
Prairie grimaced. “Then it’ll be very difficult to find out any information or updates. Sorry to tell you that.”
“It’s all right. I was just wondering,” Iris said with a weak smile.
Her disappointment must have been evident, because Prairie set down her spoon and said, “I don’t speak to reporters, but perhaps there is something you could do?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you write out a letter for me?”
Iris blinked.
The hope in Prairie’s eyes shuttered with the moment of awkward silence, and she looked down. “Never mind.”
“Yes,” Iris said, recovering from her moment of shock. She reached for her back pocket, where her notepad and pen were stashed. “Yes, I would love to.” She flipped it open to a fresh page, waiting, pen poised.
Prairie stared down at her half-eaten meal. “It’s for my sister.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
It took Prairie a moment, as if she had fallen shy, but then she began to speak soft wistful words, and Iris wrote them all down.
She went soldier to soldier after that, offering to write a letter for each of them. She didn’t ask for details about the war, or why they had chosen to fight, or how they had sustained their injuries, or if they knew of a private named Forest Winnow. All of them had someone to write home to, and Iris tried not to think of her brother as she scribed letter after letter, as her notepad soon brimmed with homesick words and memories and encouragement and hope.
But a cold flicker of dread went through her.
Why hadn’t Forest ever written to her? He had made that promise, and her brother had never been one to break vows.
Iris was beginning to believe he might be dead.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to you with the fervent hope that you will be able to tell me the current whereabouts or station of one private Forest Merle Winnow, who was recruited by Enva in the city of Oath, in Eastern Borough, Cambria, almost six months ago. His date of birth is the seventh day of Vyn, year 1892. His height is 182 cm, and he has chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes.
I am his only remaining blood relative and have been seeking to reach him by letter. I was never informed of his battalion or company, but neither have I received any news from a captain that he has perished in conflict. If you can assist me in obtaining this knowledge or pass on my letter to one who is able to, I would be eternally grateful.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Iris Winnow
