Laurens and Burr continue to hear musket fire, crouched in that hole. After a while Laurens pulls Burr against him, and in doing do his knee presses into the liquid, the wet that has spread in the dirt.

A shakey, sudden inhale. "Are you bleeding?" Laurens whispers. Burr doesn't know, so Laurens dips his hand into the damp, brings it up to his nose.

"It smells sweet," Laurens says, "it could be your water," and Burr says nothing but digs his fingers in, tight to the flesh of Laurens arms.

"What happened?" he asks again, more insistent this time.

"I don't know. We were running drills when we heard musket fire, and a runner said some patrol had stumbled into camp, British or natives, but I am not sure I trust the accuracy of his report. We couldn't make out where the fire was coming from, and it seemed as if the attackers were everywhere at once. I ran to get you to safety. Only Lafayette knows of this place--he would come and get us, if it were safe. If he doesn't--"

Laurens doesn't finish, and they lapse into silence. It is not so loud outside. It can not have been more than an hour, two, but Burr can feel something, unwinding inside him, some pain different than before.

He wishes Hamilton had never left. That Hamilton were here, holding him in the dark.