Appomattox Court House, Virginia
April 12th, 1865
Lazarus
"Doctor?"
Lazarus turned slowly, taking his time despite the urgency in the voice.
A tall man stood at the tent's entrance. The canvas behind him rippled in the spring wind. He was lean and weathered, his body showing the kind of hardship that gets carved into your bones. Gray hair framed a face with too many lines for someone his age. He had that particular stillness of someone who'd learned to keep his thoughts locked down tight. His fingertips were stained with silver nitrate. The mark of his trade. A camera case hung from his shoulder, the leather strap worn smooth from years of constant use.
But it was the eyes that stopped Lazarus cold.
He knew those eyes. Not this man. Not this face. But those eyes, and the way they
