It was a lie, Meg had realized years ago, that the end of the war meant the end of suffering. At the age of seventeen, she’d linked arms with Sylvie and their mother on the train platform, waiting for her father’s return. Steam engines hissed, whistles blasted, crowds tramped across the soot-filmed floor. Nearly dizzy with anticipation, she had craned her neck, searching form and face. But the stranger who finally shuffled toward them had borne no resemblance to Stephen Townsend. Emaciated, covered with scabs, breath that reeked of illness. Even his voice was thin. Only the eyes belonged to the man they remembered, but those looked both haunted and hunted.
    That night at home, rather than resuming his chair at the head of the table, he had left it empty, choosing to sit elsewhere. Pointing to the vacant spot Meg had waited four years for him to fill, he’d said, “The man who left is not the one who came home. I’m sorry. I am a shock to you. I’m a shock to myself.”
    Meg wondered if Stephen was a shock to Nathaniel Pierce as well. Though no longer stamped and scored by starvation, Father remained thin, his beard uncut, his eyes possessed of a fierce alertness. He squatted on the far side of the yard, the knees of his trousers threadbare to a shine though other pairs filled his closet. A canteen hung at his hip. He held up a hand to halt their approach, then pointed to the reason.
    Beneath a naked linden tree, a stray dog devoured the blackberry pie Meg had brought home from the bakery last night. Scattered in a drift of dead leaves were the crumbs of what she could only guess had been a loaf of bread.
    Meg watched helplessly, Hiram and Mr. Pierce flanking her. At last the floppy-eared stray finished his feast and scampered through the gap in the wooden fence. The air was warm as summer and dry as dust, for they’d had less than an inch of rain since July.
    “Father.” She made her way to him, carefully stepping over and around the marks he’d made on the ground, while Hiram stood back with Mr. Pierce. “The pie and bread were for us,” she whispered.
    “He was hungry. No man or beast should know hunger. If  a creature comes asking for a bite to eat and it’s in my power to give it, I’ll do it. Every time.”
    She nodded, choosing to see the compassion and kindness in the act, though she wondered if the reporter would interpret it that way.
     Stephen ran a hand down his brown beard, grizzled with coarse grey strands though he was only forty-five. “Who does Hiram have with him?”
    “His name is Mr. Nathaniel Pierce, and he’s with the Tribune. Sylvie met him at the Soldiers’ Home. He’d like to hear about your experiences during the war for a series of articles he’s writing on Chicago’s veterans. I’ll introduce you, if you’d like.” Her voice tilted up in question at the end.
    “He wants information?” Stephen squinted across the grassless yard. At length, he said, “Let’s see what he’s about.”