“Avalanche.” Ling Fan rolled the strange English word in her mouth. She remembered the snow rushing toward her like a wave, remembered the screams of the nearby workers and the deep-throated roar that shook the ground.

But now she was at the base camp, in this closed-off section of the medical tent.

“Lucky for you that Clara and I spotted you as soon as you were brought here.” Mrs. Strobridge’s fingers were light but firm.

“Ma told them to put you in this section so you could have peace and quiet,” Clara declared as she gathered up the soiled bandages. “Ma said your head would get better away from all that groaning and moaning out there.” She tilted her own curly head toward whatever lay beyond the tent flap.

“You have quite a gash in your head,” Mrs. Strobridge said briskly.“The doctor had to put in ten stitches.”

A bolt of white-hot lightning surged through Ling Fan. Her hands went to her side where Wong Wei’s knife blade had sliced through her tunic. Under the torn fabric, she felt the swell of a fresh bandage wrapped across her rib cage.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Strobridge said. “No stiches for that. And I bandaged you up myself after I had you moved in here.”

Ling Fan’s throat tightened. Mrs. Strobridge would’ve had to take off the tunic to get at the knife wound . . . She felt along her chest and could tell that her usual bindings were still in place. So the woman had put her in this secluded area, bandaged her, reclothed her—and decided to keep her secret.

Mrs. Strobridge only said, “I remember you from Illinoistown, but we can’t keep calling you Mr. Chinaman, now can we? What’s your name?”

Ling Fan hesitated. She wanted to trust this strange bak gui woman who seemed as much out of place here on the railroad as she herself felt.  “Tam Jing Fan.” Best to stick with her brother’s name. A bak gui wouldn’t know the difference, but if a Chinese person heard Mrs. Strobridge call a worker Ling, they’d be suspicious.

“Well, Tam Jing Fan, I think you should lie back and try to get some rest. You’re safe here. You’re a very lucky . . . sojourner.”

The walls swayed gently as Mrs. Strobridge passed through. Ling Fan caught a glimpse of the rest of the medical tent, crowded with wounded men.

Ling Fan lay back, suddenly weak with relief. She squeezed her eyes shut against the spinning room. She must have slept because the next thing she knew, the room was in shadows.

Somebody sat beside her cot.

It was difficult to turn her head. “Tan Din, is that you?”

“You’re finally awake!” Not Tan Din’s voice, but one she recognized.

“Thomas O’Brien. What are you doing here?” Ling Fan sat up gingerly, expecting the room to tilt and twirl. But the ache had receded to a corner of her skull, and the world stayed put. For the moment, at least.

“I looked everywhere for you after I heard about the avalanche near your work site. I was about to give you up for dead when I overheard the Strobridge kid say something about the Chinaman who talks American. I knew it had to be you. I didn’t think you’d be in here!” He broke off, glancing at the unmoving bodies that surrounded them.