Clouds were rolling in out of the northwest, which probably meant yet another storm was on the way. Moss looked down at his wrist to see what time it was. Then he muttered to himself. He’d been relieved of wristwatch and wallet shortly after his capture.

All things considered, it could have been worse. The food was lousy-grits and boiled greens and what the guards called fatback, a name that fit only too well-but there was enough of it. Meals were the high points of the day. Considering how dreary they were, that said nothing good about the rest of the time.

A captain came up to Moss. Nick Cantarella looked like what he was: a tough Italian kid out of New York City. “How ya doin’?” he asked.

Moss shrugged. “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” He wasn’t above stealing a line from one of the more inspired film comics he’d seen.

Chuckling, Cantarella said, “Yeah, this place makes Philly look good, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.” He looked around. The guard in the closest tower was watching the two of them, but he couldn’t hear a quiet conversation. No prisoners were in earshot, either. “It could happen one of these days.”

“Could it?” Moss said eagerly.

“Could, I said.” Cantarella left it at that, and trudged away with his head down and the collar of his leather jacket turned up.

However much Moss wanted to learn more, he kept quiet. Trying to know too much and learn too fast only made people in the Andersonville camp suspicious. Not all the inmates were prisoners: so Moss had been assured, anyhow. The United States and Confederate States were branches off the same trunk. They’d grown apart, but not that far apart. It wasn’t impossible for a clever Confederate to impersonate a U.S. officer. No one here was trusted with anything important-indeed, with anything at all-till someone known to be reliable vouched for him. Till then, he was presumed to be talking to the guards.