Flowers, like patches of snow, dot the hillside fields of Charlottesville.  In one of the farmhouses sits Anna, preparing herself for another bout of death.  

At first, there was a lack of hunger, but both had an unquenchable thirst.  This kept Anna moving from the springhouse to the barn, gathering jugs of water and bottles of milk.  When the vomiting started, the thirst let up enough for her to clean after them.  Their bodies grew terse and washing them was more of a chore than scrubbing the floors.  She found herself with less time to eat and so gave up meat and milk altogether; she had become a ghost in the farmhouse, fading to as pale a color as her babe and moving at a pace just faster than her husband's.   

The baby's breath was the first to turn putrescent and Simon the first to mention the pain in his abdomen, though it was plain for Anna to see from their swollen bellies.  The child finally slipped into a constant sleep.   

"Keep her with you always," Simon whispered, eyes rolling aimlessly.  Without a word, Anna led him to bed and then busied herself with turning her apron into a makeshift papoose, allowing the specter of mother and child to hover together near the stove, linger around the washtub, or haunt the grounds, always humming, never speaking.   

When her baby died, Anna found the time to mourn in her restless sleep.  When awake, every movement and deed was steered towards healing her husband.  His body grew prostrate with pain but contorted with dry heaves.  

"Anna," he moaned, making it sound like a deep Unnuh, "if you need reliance, go to the Booths.  Trustworthy.  Will serve you in the well."  The acetone odor lingered after his barely coherent words faded, the last to make any sense at all to Anna.  

That was days ago.  Today, Anna sits in her farmhouse blurring through the doctor's pages in search of the one noting a case of similar illness in Kentucky.  On that page, a few words will come together:  "the trembles…caused when cattle feed upon snakeroot…under which man turns sick and his domestic animals tremble."   

She meditates on her husband's moans then leans to the window with a rueful look.  Just as the moaning stops, she whispers her first words in days:  Milk sickness…white snakeroot.  

Anna arms herself for war and steps outside to take in the sudden silence.  There are no sounds of cattle; no husband moaning.  In this quiet desolation, she clutches the hoe like a rifle and fires it into the white patches.