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Chapter Three

Her bedroom lay in late fall darkness. Emma rolled over, turned on her bedside lamp, pulled her Bible to her chest and read a few verses. She prayed for her parents and her brother. Lord, make sure they’re warm and have enough to eat. Last winter they’d run low on coal and used it so sparingly that the house was always cold. While she was grateful for a warm, safe place to live, she felt guilty knowing Sid and her parents did not enjoy the same luxuries.

As soon as she finished her prayers, she’d run down to the basement and stir up the furnace. She paused. Was the house already warm? Had Boothe already stoked up the fire? How pleasant to waken to a warm room. She returned to her prayers, bringing her patients before God. A couple had been in the hospital for several weeks, fighting dust pneumonia. Lord, a good snowfall would put an end to the dust. But You know that. Just as You know everything we need. She prayed for friends and neighbors. Finally, when she couldn’t put it off any longer, she prayed for Boothe. There was something about him that upset her equilibrium. She didn’t like it. Lord, help him learn to trust again. And heal Jessie’s wound. She’d heard Jessie crying in the night. It was all she could do not to run down and check on him. That wound was nasty and no doubt painful. But Boothe had forbidden her to do anything for his son.

She took time to thank God for all the good things in her life. Unable to avoid the truth, she thanked her Lord for Boothe. He’s an answer to prayer for Ada, even though he is certainly not the man I would have sent to help. But again, You know best. Perhaps he needs something he will find here.

She jumped from bed, dashed across the hall to the washroom and splashed water over her face. Back in her room she pulled on white stockings, slipped into her uniform and pinned a clean apron on top. She toed into her white shoes, tied them neatly then headed downstairs to help Ada with breakfast.

At the kitchen door, she halted.

Boothe presided over the stove, frying bacon. Ada tended to the toast. A pot of coffee bubbled. Emma turned to the dining room, intent on setting the table. She stopped at the doorway. “The table’s set.”

“Boothe did it,” Ada said. “He’s catching on quickly.”

“I noticed the house is already warm. That’s nice.” Emma glanced at Boothe. He looked smug as if expecting he’d surprised her.

She shifted her gaze away. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself nor where to look, and headed for the window. The square of light revealed the yellowed grass scattered with dried leaves. Emma shivered then turned to catch Boothe watching her.

“It’s going to be cold today.” He offered her a cup of coffee.

She took it and cradled her hands around its warmth. “I heard Jessie in the night. Is he okay?”

“He’s sleeping. I’ll leave him until he needs to get ready for school.”

“Was his cut hurting him?”

Boothe glowered at her. “He had a nightmare. It will take him a few days to feel secure here.”

“It’s got to be hard for him.” Losing his mother and moving to a strange place. “But please keep an eye on that wound. Infection can be deadly.”

“I know enough to take care of my son without your help, if you don’t mind.” His expression grew darker but she refused to be intimidated. As a nurse, she faced disagreeable patients and families and dealt with them kindly, realizing their anger wasn’t directed at her personally. Only with Boothe, it felt personal. She smiled as much to calm herself as to convey kindness to Boothe. She would act professionally even with a man who despised her profession.

The boarders trickled in for breakfast. Loretta never joined them. She had no reason to be up so early. The others gathered round the table, for the most part eating without speaking.

“No snow. That’s good,” Betty said. “Do you know how much mess snow makes on the floors?” She seemed to be the only one who woke up bright and cheerful.

“Snow would settle the dust and perhaps end the drought.”

Emma jerked her head up at Boothe’s soft voice, surprised by the emotion hidden in his words. His eyes darkened as he looked deep into her soul. She felt a connection, a shared sorrow at the sad state of the economy, an acknowledgment that life was difficult. Then he shuttered his feelings and his brow furrowed as if she’d overstepped some boundary.

She turned back to her breakfast. He didn’t need to fear she’d be intruding into his life. She had more important things to attend to. Besides, she did not want to feel a connection to this man. He was dismissive almost to the point of rudeness and refused medical attention for his son. He’d branded her and the whole medical society because of a terrible accident. Tears stung her eyes at the stupidity that caused the death of his wife. She blinked them away and forced her thoughts to other things—like her responsibilities. She would do all she could to make life more tolerable for Sid and their parents.

Don spoke, thankfully pulling her from her troubled thoughts. “Boothe, did you want me to ask about a job at the factory?”

“Not yet but thanks for offering. I’m hoping to find a job that allows me to be home until Jessie leaves for school. I don’t expect I’ll be able to be home right after, but I’m grateful Aunt Ada will be here.”

The smile he sent his aunt filled Emma with alarming confusion. A man of such contrasts, full of tenderness to his son, warmth to his aunt, cold disapproval to Emma.

Betty jumped up and gathered her dishes. “Gotta run.”

Ed followed hard on her heels. Emma grinned after the pair. Ed moved in a couple months ago, fresh off a dried out farm, and had fallen instantly in love with Betty. Betty, although kind to the boy, did not encourage him. She vowed she’d spent enough years on a farm and stuck in a small town. As soon as she saved enough money, she was off to the city.

Boothe asked Don about other job possibilities. He spoke in an easy, relaxed manner, his tone warm, his expression interested.

Emma’s errant thoughts repeated her initial reaction at her first glimpse of him approaching the boardinghouse. A strong, caring man. She slammed a mental door. She had her duties. They excluded useless dreams, especially ones that included a man. Emma sobered. She would not let herself be another Ed, longing for something that was impossible.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” Ada said as Emma hesitated at the sink. “Boothe will help me.”

“Do you want me to bring up a basin of potatoes?” She normally brought whatever vegetables Ada needed to prepare during the day.

“Boothe will do it. I expect to make him work for his keep.” Ada’s voice held a teasing note.

Emma realized how good this arrangement would be for Ada.

“I’ll see you later, then.” She wrapped her cape about her and headed out into the cold darkness. The sun breathed pink air over the horizon as she entered the hospital.

At the end of her shift, Emma hurried back to the boardinghouse, shivering in the cold wind and coughing in protest of the dust particles in the air. The endless dust grew tiresome. It would be worse for Mom and Dad and Sid on the farm. Relentless. God, please send snow. Please end the drought.

She was getting home later than she should have been thanks to the demands of her job. And she was exhausted—more so in mind than body. It had been one of those days that made her wish she could change people’s thoughts.

Two elderly patients died—their deaths not entirely unexpected, but the woman might have survived if she hadn’t refused to see a doctor until she was too weak to protest when her daughter insisted she must.

And then a woman came in to have her baby. She’d been in labor seventy-two hours before she finally decided she needed medical intervention. The baby had been delivered and both were alive, but Emma wondered about the long-term effects on the baby. The infant girl had been slow to start breathing and seemed sluggish in her responses.

Emma wished she could erase the mental images of the worst scene of all—a young man who had been ill for some time but only when he could no longer respond did his parents decide to seek help. By then the skin on the young man hung like a sheet draped over a wooden rack. His eyes were sunken. She couldn’t help thinking of Sid, remembering how vigorous he’d been at that age. She smiled past tears. Sid had been so eager for life and adventure—with an attitude that led him to take reckless chances just for a thrill. She stilled a shudder. The consequences of taking such risks had gone beyond harmless adventure.

She’d worked feverishly over the young man in her care, determined she would not let his life slip away. He showed little improvement, even with all her efforts.

Later, in private, Dr. Phelps shook his head. “He’s so dehydrated I wonder if his kidneys are even functional.”

“I don’t understand why people wait so long to get help.” Emma’s voice was sharp with frustration. “So much of this suffering is unnecessary.”

Dr. Phelps sighed. “The greatest disease of all is ignorance.”

The young man had still been alive, struggling for each breath, when she’d finally left the hospital, chased away by the matron who insisted Emma was of no value to them if she wore herself out.

Emma paused before the front door of the boardinghouse. She would not drag her frustration and sorrow into the house. Lord, take my concerns and replace them with Your peace. She waited until she had a sense of God’s comforting arms about her then stepped inside.

From the kitchen came the sound of Jessie’s crackling voice, high with some protest and Boothe’s lower, calmer response.

As Emma headed for the stairs, she could hear the conversation more clearly.

“Daddy, I want to go home.” The irritable note in Jessie’s voice alerted Emma’s instincts.

“This is home now.” Boothe explained in gentle tones with just an edge of impatience.

Emma smiled, guessing this conversation had gone on for some time and Boothe had about reached the end of his rope.

“I don’t like it here.” No mistaking Jessie’s stubbornness. “I don’t like the school. I don’t like anything.” She heard a small thump, as if Jessie kicked something.

Emma hesitated part way up the stairs, curious to know how Boothe would handle this.

“You’ll learn to like it. You’ll learn to be happy.”

“No. I won’t.”

Emma tilted her head toward the kitchen. Obviously, Jessie was finding the transition difficult, but it sounded like more than that. He sounded like a child who wasn’t feeling well.

She wanted to check on him, but Boothe had made it doubly clear he would tolerate no interference with his son, yet she could simply not ignore the needs of a sick child. Remembering the young man at the hospital, remembering an earlier time when she’d failed to intervene, she spared a moment to pray for wisdom then headed back down the stairs and into the kitchen, not giving herself a chance to change her mind.

Boothe peeled potatoes. He gave her a brief glance, his mouth set in a tight line. “Aunt Ada’s resting.”

Jessie sat at the other end of the table, a book before him.

Emma took a few more steps into the room so she could see Jessie better. He glanced at her, his mouth pulled back in an angry frown, his hair mussed as if he’d been pushing it back in frustration. There was no mistaking the glassy look in his eyes.

“Hello,” he murmured, his voice croaky as if it took effort to get the word out.

Emma itched to press her palm to his forehead, but she didn’t need to touch him to know he ran a fever. She turned to Boothe, undaunted by his glower. “Your son is sick. You need to look after him.”

Jessie jumped from his chair. “I want to go home,” he wailed and raced for the storeroom where they slept.

Boothe’s mouth pulled down into a fierce scowl. “I warned you to stay out of my affairs.”

“Strictly speaking, you said not to interfere with your son, but I can’t stand by and see him needing medical attention and not getting it. I’ve seen enough needless suffering for one day.” She stopped short of providing any details from the hospital. “Your son has a fever. You should attend to him. I’ll finish the potatoes as soon as I’ve changed.”

His eyes darkened with anger, but she met his gaze boldly, unflinchingly. They looked at each other a long time. She felt as if they dueled with unseen weapons. She would not let him win this silent war. This was not about him proving he didn’t need the help of a nurse. This was about a sick little boy needing care. She would not back down and let Jessie or anyone suffer needlessly.

Muttering under his breath about interfering women and controlling nurses, he tossed the paring knife on the table and strode after Jessie.

She called after him. “You might want to sponge him with cool water to lower the fever. And check his cut. If it looks infected, try an old-fashioned remedy like a bread poultice.”

She waited to hear Boothe murmur to Jessie. The shrill whine of Jessie’s answer sent skitters of alarm up her spine. She hoped home remedies would be enough.

Guessing Boothe might not want to return to the kitchen until she left, and knowing he needed to get water to sponge Jessie and probably prepare a poultice, she headed to her room to change into a warm sweater and skirt.

A wave of discouragement swept over her and she fell to her knees. God, I can’t stand to see so much suffering because of ignorance or stupidity. And it’s difficult for me to stand by when I see Jessie needing attention. He’s such a sweet boy and is dealing with so much. Heal his cut. Heal their inner hurts. She didn’t question that she meant both Jessie and his father in her last request.

Chapter Four

Boothe fumed at Emma’s insinuation that he didn’t know how to care for his son. He might not be as quick to figure out medical needs as she was, but even before her comment, he realized Jessie wasn’t just whining because of the move and a new school, though Boothe figured it was more than enough reason to cause the boy to fuss.

He paused outside the storeroom, pulling his angry thoughts into submission before he faced his son.

Jessie lay face down on his bed, sobbing.

Boothe shifted Jessie and perched on the edge of the cot beside him. He rubbed Jessie’s back. “I’m sorry things are so hard right now, but I promise they’ll get better.”

Jessie scrunched away making it plain he cared little for Boothe’s promise.

Boothe swept his hand over Jessie’s forehead. It did seem warmer than normal. He checked under Jessie’s shirt. Again, the boy seemed a bit too warm. “Jessie, I need to check your arm.”

Jessie wailed and drew into a ball, pressing a hand to his shoulder as if to prevent Boothe from touching him.

“I have to look at it.”

“Leave me alone.” Jessie turned his tear-streaked face to Boothe. “I don’t want you. I want Auntie Vera.”

Boothe’s heart stalled as the words pierced his soul. He pulled his hand back and ground his fist into his thigh as if he could force his mind to shift to the pain in his leg. Jessie had no idea how his words hurt, how losing his son’s love to Vera and Luke seemed like the final injustice in a list of unexpected, undeserved tragedies.

Ignoring his son’s resistance, he turned him to his back. “Do you want to take off your shirt or do you want me to?”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He unbuttoned the shirt.

“Owwwww.”

Boothe ignored the pathetic pleas and sat Jessie up to remove the shirt and lower the top half of the long underwear. He gently touched the arm on either side of the dressing, but he couldn’t tell if it seemed unduly warm.

“I have to take off the bandage.”

Jessie batted at Boothe’s hands. “Don’t touch it.”

“I have to.” He began to unwrap the cloth.

When Jessie realized his protests wouldn’t stop Boothe, he settled back and glowered. “You don’t care if it hurts.”

“Son, I don’t want to hurt you. You know that. But if your cut is infected, it has to be treated.”

“You don’t care.”

Boothe’s eyes narrowed as he pulled off the pad of cloth and saw the reddened edges of the wound. “I’ll have to put a poultice on this.” He didn’t need Emma to tell him what to do. He knew about poultices because Alyse had put one on his leg when he tore it on barbwire. She’d ignored his protest that it would heal just fine left alone. Silently he thanked her for insisting; otherwise he would not know how to treat their son now.

He tilted his head toward the kitchen and when he determined it was quiet, hurried in and put a small pot of milk on the stove. He had no desire to see Emma or listen to her unwanted advice. Knowing she was a nurse who played with people’s lives made his tongue curl with a bitter taste.

As he waited for the milk to heat, he prepared a thick slice of bread and gathered up clean rags.

He heard Emma’s steps on the stairs as he carried his supplies back to the storeroom. The skin on the back of his neck prickled with tension, and he picked up his pace even though he doubted she’d follow him. He put the milk-soaked bread on the wound and wrapped it in place with a length of sheet. According to what he remembered Alyse saying, it had to be left until morning and by then would have drawn out the infection. If not, he would do it again. He would fight for the well-being of his young son. And he would not let someone interfere because they had an education that they thought gave them the right.

Jessie continued to glower at him. “You should have taken me to the doctor like Miss Emma said.”

Boothe finished pinning the cloth in place, giving himself time to calm his thoughts. He gently took Jessie’s shoulders and squeezed. “Jessie, don’t ever think you can turn yourself over to the care of a doctor or nurse and you’ll be safe. You must promise me to use your head and do what you need to look after yourself and those you care about.”

He waited for Jessie to agree but the boy only whimpered. Boothe didn’t like to press him when he was feeling poorly but this was too important to let go. “Jessie, you have to take care of yourself or let someone who loves you take care of you. Don’t trust strangers. You must promise me.”

“Okay, I promise.”

Boothe wondered if the boy understood, but he would be sure to repeat the warning time and again until Jessie had it firmly in his mind. He did not want to lose his son to a careless nurse or doctor concerned more with their medicines and diagnoses than with the patient. Alyse was not simply a patient. She had been his wife and Jessie’s mother.

He sponged Jessie until he seemed less restless. He would have done it without Emma’s instructions. He focused on Emma’s interference, hoping to keep his fear at bay. It was only a cut. Nothing out of the ordinary for a small boy. He himself had many scars to prove children endured cuts that healed sometimes without so much as being cleaned.

Yet Boothe had overreacted when Jessie ran into the nail on the side of the baggage cart. When he saw the deep tear in Jessie’s flesh, he’d roared at the innocent baggage handler. It had taken a long while for his inner turmoil to settle down, for his fears to subside.

Jessie was all he had left. He intended to protect him from danger and interference.

But now he had an infection and Boothe was powerless to fix it.

He felt inadequate trying to be both father and mother. He didn’t feel adequate as one parent, let alone trying to be both. But one thing he knew without a flicker of doubt—his son would not ever be subjected to the careless ministrations of a nurse or a doctor.

He let his anger, fear and frustration narrow down to Emma. Just because she was a nurse gave her no right to interfere in his life. Or Jessie’s. He’d warn her again to mind her own business. Surely there were enough people at the hospital wanting her help without her having to play nurse at home. Apart from having to sit at the same table for breakfast and supper, he could see no reason for the two of them to spend time together or even speak for that matter.

He sat at the bed until Jessie drifted off to sleep.

When Aunt Ada had admitted she hadn’t slept well because of her arthritis, he’d sent her to bed promising to make supper. He returned to the kitchen to fulfill his duty.

Emma stood at the table cleaning up the last of the potato peelings. She glanced up as he entered the room. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

“You might want to—”

“Stop. If I want your advice, I’ll ask. I want to make myself very clear here.” He stood at the doorway, his fists on his hips, and gave her his hardest look. “I don’t want your help looking after my child. I will see to his needs. Do you hear me?”

She quirked one disbelieving eyebrow. “Of course I hear you. But—”

He shook his head. “No buts. Stay away from Jessie and me. Find someone else to fix if you have such a need.”

Her eyes darkened like the approach of night. Her nostrils flared.

He waited, expecting an outburst, or perhaps a hot defense of her abilities.

But she swallowed hard and then blinked twice in rapid succession. “I am not trying to fix anyone, though I wish I had the ability. Believe me, many times a day, I wish I could.”

“So long as we understand each other.”

“Oh, I think we do, and I don’t think keeping out of your way is going to prove too difficult for me.”

Her gaze slid past him. He understood she thought of Jessie.

“Leave Jessie alone.”

Before Emma answered, before he could guess what the sudden flash in her eyes meant, Aunt Ada entered the room.

“It’s almost time to make supper.” She patted a yawn. “I can’t believe I slept so long.”

“The potatoes are ready to cook.” Emma headed for the door, obviously ready and anxious to get away from Boothe. “I’m going to run over to the Douglases.”

She left and Boothe turned his attention to supper preparations, slicing pork for frying, pouring applesauce from a jar into a bowl and generally, in his inept way, doing his best to help Aunt Ada.

The meal was almost ready when he heard Emma return. A tightness across his shoulders relaxed. For the past twenty minutes, he wondered if he’d offended her so badly she decided not to come back. Perhaps she would find somewhere else to live. It would prove a relief for him if she did but he knew Aunt Ada needed her boarders, and despite his personal dislike of Emma, she was, no doubt, the sort of boarder Aunt Ada preferred.

Emma slipped into her place at the far end of the table.

He glanced her way as he placed a bowl mounded with creamy mashed potatoes in the center of the table. He’d done a good job with them, if he did say so himself, though it had taken some direction from Aunt Ada.

He’d expected Emma to be subdued, even a bit sullen after the way he’d spoken to her, and the look of eager anticipation and excitement on her face made him narrow his eyes. Had she found somewhere else to live? Somewhere more welcoming? For Aunt Ada’s sake, he hoped not.

“Where’s Jessie?” Betty asked.

“He’s not feeling well. I’ve had to sponge him a couple of times to get his fever down.” He kept his voice firm to convince one and all he was competent to care for his son without medical interference.

Emma studied him soberly but offered no more advice.

The others murmured sympathy for the little boy.

Loretta, the old dear, offered her own solution. “The boy needs a good dose of salts. That will fix him up in a snap.”

Boothe almost laughed at the shock in Emma’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Though he had no intention of doing such a thing.

Emma’s eyes flashed. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he shook his head ever so slightly, silently reminding her of his warning. She shut her mouth and fixed him with a deadly look.

He ducked to hide a smile. He almost enjoyed seeing her bristle.

Amidst the general discussion as people dug into the food, complimenting both he and Aunt Ada, Boothe stole several glances at Emma. Her anger at him had disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced with the same eagerness she’d had when she returned. He wondered what sparked the flashing light in her eyes and again hoped she wouldn’t decide to move out.

The food disappeared quickly. He helped Aunt Ada serve the butterscotch pudding she’d made earlier in the day. As everyone enjoyed the dessert, Emma leaned forward.

“Listen everyone,” she began.

Boothe waited for the announcement.

“I went to visit Pastor and Mrs. Douglas this afternoon. You all know how difficult things have been for them this year with Pastor Douglas recovering from a stroke.”

Boothe listened to the murmurs of acknowledgment. Was she going to move in with them?

“They always make gifts for each child at the Christmas concert.” Emma edged forward and glanced around the table, her expression eager as she looked at each one until her gaze settled on Boothe. Then her eyes grew wary.

Then she skipped past him and continued. “With all they’ve had to deal with, they haven’t got the gifts made. Mrs. Douglas was fretting about how to get thirty or forty gifts done in time. I thought we could do something to help. What do you think?”

There was silence for a moment while everyone digested her request. For his part, Boothe had to work hard to keep from exhaling his relief over her announcement. Her excitement was only about taking over a project and getting them all involved.

Betty spoke first. “Forty gifts? How on earth did they ever do it themselves?”

Emma nodded. “I know. I wondered the same.”

“What sort of things do they normally make?” Sarah asked.

“Generally, wooden toys for the boys, dolls for the girls. and Mrs. Douglas said they also like to make sure every child gets a pair of mittens.”

“Goodness,” Ed said. “Forty gifts.”

“I thought if we worked in the evenings, making it a group project instead of reading our book…Just until this is done,” Emma added as the others protested. “Pastor Douglas sent the pattern for trucks and trains. He said if anyone can carve, you could make airplanes with little propellers that turn. Wait, I’ll show you.” She hurried out to the hall and returned with a large wooden box that she put on the floor by her chair. She pulled out pieces of wood. “He even got a few cut before his stroke. They only need to be sanded and painted.” She finally sat back, quiet, waiting for the others to respond.

“Forty toys,” Ed said again.

Loretta clapped her hands. “Well, of course the children must have their gifts. I can certainly knit mittens.”

“I’ll knit some, too,” Aunt Ada said.

“I can sew things,” Sarah added.

“Thank you.” Emma turned to Ed and Don. “Can you help with the wooden toys?”

“Forty gifts?” Ed said.

Betty snapped her fingers in his face. “Ed, get over it. Say you’ll help. I’m going to.”

Everyone laughed at how quickly Ed agreed. Don added his promise to help.

Emma slid her glance over Boothe. “Good.” She rubbed her hands together. “As soon as the kitchen is cleaned, let’s get started. We have a lot to do.”

Boothe stared at her. Was he invisible? Wasn’t he allowed to be part of this? His eyes narrowed. Did she think he’d refuse simply because it was her idea? Or because she’d be there? Admittedly, a part of him rebelled at the idea of working with her. But what was he supposed to do? Sit by idly while everyone else made gifts for the children? And he was the only one with a child of his own. It simply wasn’t right. “I’ll help, too.”

Emma gazed in his direction. “That’s very generous of you.” Her words sounded like she’d dragged them from the icebox.

“You’re welcome. I’m proud to do my part.” Not giving her a chance to respond, he grabbed a handful of plates and strode to the kitchen.

As he washed dishes, having appointed himself chief cook and bottle washer, his thoughts mocked him. Avoid her. You only have to see her at supper and breakfast. Stay away from her and her interfering ways. And the first time something comes up where you don’t have to be in the same room, jump right in and volunteer. Oh yes. He certainly made a wise move there.

The evening barely got underway before he knew he’d made a mistake. Emma took control of the proceedings in such a high-handed way that he bit his tongue to keep from protesting. Only Aunt Ada and Loretta escaped her control as they retired to the front room, sorted through yarn and started on the mittens.

Emma put out fabric on the table, some already cut into rag doll shapes, and gave Betty and Sarah each a job. She ordered Ed and Don to the corner of the room. “We don’t want to mess up Ada’s kitchen any more than necessary.” Ed and Don obeyed like young boys and immediately began sanding pieces. She looked at Boothe, shrugged and left him to decide what he wanted to do.

He didn’t want to be ordered about, but he also didn’t want to be ignored as if she didn’t care to acknowledge his presence—maybe even his existence. “I’m going to try my hand at carving a propeller.” He grabbed a chair and joined Ed and Don in the corner.

As they worked, they talked. And Boothe listened.

“Any news from Kody and Charlotte?” asked Betty.

Boothe learned that Kody was the Douglas’s son and he and his wife owned a ranch in the hills.

“I haven’t seen them in a while,” Emma said. “I might have to go out there on my day off.”

At the lonesome tone in her voice, Boothe glanced her way. Did nurses feel the same emotions as others? Somehow he expected they functioned like machines—bossy machines—with no concern about how people felt. That she’d reveal ordinary emotions surprised him.