*Hattie* 

The sun hasn't dared rise yet, but the eastern sky begins to erupt in shades of pink and orange. The porch boards creak beneath me as I shift my weight, stiff from where I sit, half--leaning, half--upright, against the rail. My dress is bunched under me, my arms crossed over my chest, the warmth of the last soldier I tended lingering. Someone moans nearby. Another man coughs. Beyond that sits the silence, thick and awful, the kind that only follows cannon fire and ...