Over the following days, they developed a quiet routine.
Gideon rose before dawn to tend cattle, repair fences, and split timber.
Rosalie cooked, washed clothes, and mended blankets.
Their marriage existed mostly through penciled messages: Storm tonight.
Flour is above the stove.
North fence tomorrow.
There was little affection between them, but Rosalie slowly realized she wasn’t afraid of him.
Then, on their eighth night together, she found Gideon collapsed beside the hearth, sweat soaking his shirt, his trembling hand pressed against his right ear.
Gideon grabbed the notebook: Happens often.
Afterward, she noticed details she had overlooked: rusty stains on his pillow, his discomfort near intense heat, and the constant clutching at his skull.
One evening, she pushed the notebook toward him: How long?
Gideon hesitated: Since I was a child.
Doctors had blamed an accident that destroyed his hearing.
Rosalie wrote: Did you believe them?
His pencil remained still: No.
