A small grove stood beyond the tall grass, close enough to the road that he could still hear the battle but far enough away for the branches to conceal him. He pulled himself beneath them and rolled onto his back.

The sky showed between the leaves.

Blue.

Almost absurdly blue. For a moment, he simply looked at it, then his hand found the notebook beneath his coat.

He had carried it without thinking. The notebook was pressed against his chest, held there by the same strap and clothing that had kept it from being lost when he fell.

His fingers rested on its cover.

He closed his eyes.

He knew his uncle’s men would hear the shots. He knew they would be coming and would be joining in the battle, so he remained still as the battle continued beyond the trees.

Rifles cracked. Horses screamed. Men shouted and cursed. Then, gradually, the sounds began to separate again.

One shot. Then another. Then long stretches of silence.

Caleb kept his hand over the notebook. He could feel his heartbeat beneath it.

He thought of music.

Not because he wanted to. Because the mind, when the body is afraid, goes wherever it can.

A phrase Nora had played years ago. A melody he had written in the margin of a page. His mother’s voice. His father’s hands. The sound of a piano in the room behind the shop.

He had no choice but to stay watching the leaves move overhead and to wait for his uncle’s men to find him.

He waited, but none came. He lay there with the reality that the war had brought him to this road, this bend, this patch of grass beneath these particular trees.

But the war had not made the road. The road had been there before them. The grass had been growing before them. The crossroad had been waiting for travelers who had no idea what lay beyond the hill.

He had no choice but to wait.