Early March came to Cherry Valley with damp mornings and slow light. The frost no longer held the ground the way it had through January, but the cold still lingered in the shade of trees and the low edges of fields. The dirt road outside the Hollis cabin had softened into thick clay, wagon wheels cutting deep lines that would remain until the next hard rain.

  Spring was coming, but it had not yet arrived.

  That morning the Harper house woke earlier than usual.

  Virgil did not see the inside of that house, but the town carried sound differently in early hours. Wagons creaked sooner. Doors shut softer. Even the chickens seemed confused by the sudden movement.

  Mother had him wrapped in a wool blanket near the stove when the wagon rolled past the Hollis place.

  Thomas was driving.

  Beside him sat Calvin Harper.

  And in the back, a single small bag rested beside Eli.

  Virgil could hear the wagon wheels long after it passed the gate.

  That’s the sound of a place letting someone go, he thought.

  Mother stepped to the window and watched until the wagon disappeared down the road.

  “God keep that boy,” she murmured.

  Virgil did not yet understand the full meaning of departure, but he recognized the change in the air. The house felt quieter that morning. Even Thomas’s boots had sounded heavier when he crossed the floor earlier before leaving.

  The road into town was mud and ruts.

  Thomas guided the wagon carefully. The horse snorted clouds of breath into the morning air.

  Eli sat with his hands resting on his knees. The bag beside him was small — a spare shirt, socks, a photograph Calvin had insisted he take.

  He watched the fields pass without speaking.

  Calvin sat beside Thomas, shoulders squared in that stubborn way men used when emotion threatened to break through.

  No one hurried the horse.

  The ride itself seemed to understand the moment.

  “You remember what Sam wrote about boots?” Calvin asked after a long stretch.

  “Yes sir,” Eli answered.

  “Keep ’em dry as you can.”

  “I will.”

  Another silence settled.

  The fields were still brown from winter, cotton stubble sticking out of the soil like broken teeth.

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  Eli studied them carefully.

  He’s memorizing this road, Virgil would later think if he could have seen it. Every man does that when he leaves home.

  The rail stop sat outside town — not much more than a wooden platform beside a stretch of iron track. A telegraph pole leaned slightly near the edge, wires humming faintly in the cold air.

  Two other wagons were already there.

  Three boys stood near the platform.

  One of them laughed too loudly at something no one else found funny.

  Another kept adjusting the strap of his bag.

  A woman stood beside one of them, hands clasped tight.

  Thomas pulled the wagon to a stop.

  No one climbed down immediately.

  The train whistle sounded in the distance.

  Long.

  Low.

  Unmistakable.

  “Well,” Calvin said quietly.

  Eli stepped down first.

  His boots sank slightly into the mud.

  Thomas followed, giving the horse’s harness a quick adjustment even though it didn’t need one. It gave his hands something to do.

  The whistle sounded again, closer now.

  Steam drifted faintly along the tracks far down the line.

  Eli lifted his bag.

  “Reckon this is it,” he said.

  Calvin faced him.

  For a moment neither man spoke.

  Then Calvin extended his hand.

  Eli took it.

  The grip held longer than a normal handshake.

  “You write when you can,” Calvin said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you listen to your sergeant.”

  “I will.”

  Calvin nodded once.

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  Eli smiled faintly.

  “That’s plenty.”

  Thomas stepped forward next.

  He placed a hand on Eli’s shoulder.

  “Keep your head down,” he said simply.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Look after the boys beside you.”

  “I will.”

  Thomas squeezed his shoulder once before letting go.

  The train thundered into view then.

  Black iron.

  Steam hissing.

  Wheels grinding against the rails with a sound that seemed too large for the quiet Arkansas morning.

  It slowed with a long metallic sigh.

  Doors slid open along several cars.

  A conductor stepped down and called out instructions.

  The other boys moved first.

  The laughing one had gone quiet now.

  Eli turned once more toward Calvin.

  Neither man said anything.

  Then Eli climbed the metal steps into the railcar.

  Thomas watched until his boots disappeared inside.

  The conductor blew his whistle.

  The train lurched.

  Slow at first.

  Then faster.

  Steam trailing behind it like breath on a cold morning.

  Calvin stood still until the last car vanished down the track.

  Only then did he exhale.

  “Well,” he said quietly.

  Thomas nodded.

  They climbed back into the wagon without hurry.

  The ride home felt longer.

  The road had not changed.

  But the wagon carried less weight.

  Back in Cherry Valley the day moved forward like any other.

  Harper’s store opened.

  Men stopped in for tobacco and nails.

  Calvin stacked flour sacks with the same careful motions as before.

  But there was one less voice leaning in the doorway.

  Virgil noticed the difference even from his basket near the Hollis porch that afternoon.

  Thomas returned from Memphis later that evening.

  Coal dust clung to his sleeves.

  Mother met him at the door.

  “He left this morning,” she said.

  “I know,” Thomas answered.

  They ate supper quietly.

  Afterward Thomas stepped onto the porch.

  The night air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke.

  A freight train rolled through the distance, its whistle cutting across the fields.

  Thomas leaned against the porch post and listened.

  History moves by rail now, Virgil thought from inside his crib. Men leave on it. Supplies move on it. Letters return on it.

  The train passed.

  The sound faded slowly into the night.

  Thomas remained on the porch for several minutes longer.

  “He’s a good boy,” he said finally.

  Inside, Mother folded laundry near the stove.

  “Yes,” she answered softly.

  Virgil lay awake longer than usual that night.

  He stared at the ceiling beams, watching the shadows shift as the fire burned low.

  Somewhere far east of Cherry Valley, the same train would eventually meet larger tracks.

  Then ports.

  Then ships.

  Then mud.

  The war keeps moving forward, he thought. And Cherry Valley keeps letting pieces of itself go.

  Outside, the road dried slowly beneath the night air.

  Spring was coming.

  And time, as always, moved in only one direction.