THE MEASURE OF MERCY

By late December, the first winter snow had draped the Cumberland Plateau in a silent, glistening blanket of white.

Clara’s blood counts had stabilized into normal ranges for three consecutive weeks. Her appetite had returned; her cheeks carried a faint, healthy blush, and the soft curls of her new dark hair were beginning to thicken around her ears.

On a brilliant, freezing morning when the sky was the color of wild cornflowers, Clara sat up on the edge of the bed.

She did not reach for her wheelchair.

""David,"" Clara called softly toward the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh sourdough bread and wild blackberry tea filled the warm air.

David stepped into the room, wiping flour from his canvas apron.

Clara stood up.

Her legs were thin, trembling slightly beneath her flannel pajamas, but her feet were planted flat and firm on the wide heart-pine floorboards.

David rushed forward, his hands out, ready to catch her.

""Wait, David,"" Clara smiled, her hazel eyes dancing with pure, triumphant joy. ""Don't hold me. Just stand where you are.""

With slow, deliberate, courageous grace, Clara took one step forward.

Then a second.

Then a third.

She crossed the six feet of open timber floor, reached David’s chest, and laid her head flat against his heart, wrapping her arms around his waist.

David wrapped his strong arms around her, burying his face in her hair, weeping with the overwhelming, clean relief of a man who had watched a miracle unfold from the ashes of despair.

""Look at you, Clara,"" David sobbed happily. ""Look at you.""