Her hand feels so delicate as I rub my thumb across her knuckles.

“Wait on me for a couple more moons, Liz.” 

Though a damp cloth rests upon her forehead, beads of sweat still roll down the side of her angelic face. We were given a matching set of pearl green eyes, hers now hidden by her eyelids as she squeezes them as tight as one would a dear loved one who has returned from war. Her brunette hair wavy as rushing oceans and her long forgotten smile now bunched up and twisted. She tightens her grip on my hand, weak but firm. I stand to pull the sheet down, but she stops me and tries pulling it up. Hot then cold, cold then hot, it never stops. I shut the window above her head; there lies no walls in this largely open room, just a row of beds on each side, each with their own nightstand, evening light, and a window. I pull the cover up over and tuck her in before grabbing my black leather cap off the nightstand. 

“Morning young man, how are your knees treating you?” I hear from behind me. I turn to see a man dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt,  black vest, black bowtie and a light coat that runs down to his ankles. What sticks out to me the most is the large top hat sitting on his head 

“Sir?” I ask, my eyebrow raised.

“My apologies, I’ve just never met anyone near my height before,” the man says,” how tall do you stand?”

“Standing at 6’4 sir. I believe this is a first for me as well.”

“It is rare I’m sure. And who might this young lady be?” He nods his head towards Liz, “if you don’t mind my asking.” 

“This young lady is my little sister, Elizabeth. She’s ill with smallpox, as I’m sure you can see,” his face softens as I answer. 

“I myself had smallpox 2 years ago back in ‘63,” he pauses and his face turns grim as he turns to look out the window, “I nearly died from it,” he says in almost a whisper. Then he turns around, a smile back on his face. “What’s your name lad? I never caught it,” his hand stretched out towards me.

 I shake it, “James Arnold.”

**********

As the man heads out, he waves back at me. I return the gesture realizing I never caught his name. I look back at my sister in her sickened state and grip the cap in my hand before putting it on firmly. Just a few more jobs. 

Before I make it to the door, I’m stopped by a nurse whose smiling ear to ear.

“You’re James, right? Liz’s elder and handsome brother?” she asks. “I just loveee what you're wearing,” she says as she starts tracing her finger up my arm, “White shirt, black vest…” her arms now around my neck, “… black tie, and… are those leather gloves?” 

“Yes, I am her brother,” I say,. “Is there something wrong with her?”

She jumps back shaking her head and hands.

“No no! Of course not! I’m here with good news actually!”

“And that would be…?”

“The President put money down on your sister’s bill! Quite a large sum actually.” She answers. What would the President wan’t with us?

“The President?” I ask. .

“Yes, THE President Lincoln?!” she stammers, “there’s no way you could've missed him! He’s a tall man with a tall hat.” 

Tall man with a tall hat? Ah, that’s the man that spoke with me earlier. 

“I’m not exactly sure what to say…” I carry off. Based on what the nurse follows to tell me after, there’s not much left to pay for my sister’s bill. Just one more job. I run to the door hoping the president is just outside and not too far. Washington D.C. is quite the busy place, I would never be able to find him otherwise. Although, once I make it outside I see he’s nowhere in sight. My arms drop to my side as I let out a heavy sigh. 

“Why in such a rush, Patch?” I can hear the smile in the voice behind me. Patch is the name I was given by an old colleague, because they had to keep ‘patching’ me up. I go to look over my shoulder until I hear, “Keep your head forward.” I leave my head to the side, my back towards him. I could only make out a figure leaning up against the outside edge of the door. 

“Well if you know that name, then I assume you have a job for me,” I say.

“There’s someone waiting for you down at the saloon by Richie’s shop. They have a job for you.” 

**********

Wooden stools and tables, dimmed chandeliers hang from the ceiling, pictures and paintings hang around the vicinity, consisting mainly of historical events and animals, is what I see upon walking in. Wooden floors and rough wood walls line the place. The bartender, who’s currently cleaning a glass, looks up at me and nods in the direction of a room set off from the main sitting room. I pull my hat down as I walk through the tables. I hear the shuffling of decks, clanking of mugs on the table, talks about the war with the south, and fighting over in the corner. Every and anything one would expect coming here. I smile. I love it here.

I make it to the door that leads into the back room. There’s someone standing outside who pats me down checking for weapons. They very thoroughly go through every pocket. They must not know who I am. Upon walking in I see three men sitting around a table and one leaning against the edge of the window. 

“Well, Well, Well. Look who we have here,” the man at the head of the table says, “the infamous Patch himself. I have to say I have heard of your work and I am very impressed.” 

“I’m flattered, really,” I give a small bow, hand on my chest, “but I tend to like to know my admirers name and agenda before going any further.” The man at the head of the table laughs as he gets up and walks around the table to me, hand out ready for me to shake. 

“I am John Wilkes Booth, and I,  good sir, need you to kill the president.”

**********

We’re all sitting back at the table, instead of the man leaning against the window, who’s name I learned is Lewis Powell. Across from me is Booth, to my left is David Herold, and my right George Atzerodt. 

“So here’s the plan, Powell takes care of the injured Secretary of State who’s currently rehabilitating at home, William Seward, with Herold as his guide to get away. Herold will also provide a “prescription” from the pharmacy for Mr. Seward as he is a pharmacist's assistant,” he pauses, “that shouldn’t be too hard, should it be, Herold?” Booth asks almost rhetorically. 

“N-No, i-it shouldn’t be hard at all.” Herold nods his head, more at himself than to Booth.

“Good. Powell will take said prescription to the door and say that he must deliver it directly, as that is what the note on the prescription from the “Pharmacist” says. It will be then that he delivers a fatal blow, be it gun or blade. Sir Atzerodt here, ” he turns to Atzerodt and grips a hand on his shoulder and gives a slight shake, “will take care of Vice President Andrew Johnson at Kirkwood house, the hotel down the road from Ford’s theatre where he’ll be staying. Is that all understood?” He asks, looking around the table then back at Powell who’s looking down at the revolver in his hands. 

There’s a collective, “Yes,” from them all. 

“Now the star of our show, Patch here,” he says with a smile, “tonight at Ford’s Theatre will assassinate the Pres---”

“No.”

“ ‘N-No’ ?? What do you mean ‘No’??” His voice raised, his mouth forming a wide O.

“I have my....reasons.” I state, legs and arms crossed.

“Then why are you here!? You’ve sat here listening to the entire plan! And for what!?” He stands and slams his hand on the table. “WHY I OUTTA---!” Before he can finish I’m across the table, one hand on his throat, the other holding a blade to his jewels. I look into his now shaking eyes with a smile on my face. 

“If I were you, I’d watch what I say. An advantage of being my height is that you have long reach.” Powell gets off the wall next to the window, rolls the barrel and aims the gun at me. I keep my eyes on Booth. “I can have this knife up to his sternum before you can pull that trigger.” 

“Oh really?” Powell taunts.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Booth pleads, “we don’t have to do this now do we? Come on. Put the weapons down and let’s have a civilized talk, eh?” I release my grip on his throat and pull back, both hands in the air. I flick my hand back and forth as I conceal the knife gone and out of their sight, retaking my seat. Booth does the same. Herold and Atzerdot have not budged an inch at all during this interaction. Powell still stands, gun raised. 

Booth turns to him saying, “Put. It. Away.” He disengages the gun and takes his spot back by the window. 

“Now,” I start, “what I was going to say before you began acting like a child, was that I will take care of another target, but I cannot take care of the president. As I said, I have my reasons.” Booth crosses his arm and stares at the ceiling. He then lets out a deep breath.

“Fine,” he says, “who wants to switch with Picky Patch here?” he asks looking around the room. They all shake their head, even Powell. No one wants to take the fall for killing the President. “You are all a bunch of cowards!” he yells. 

“W-Why can’t you? It’s your plan and all.” Herold says, surprisingly. Booth’s eyes get wide. 

“Why? Because---,” he starts.

“Yeah, Why can’t you?” Powell agrees, “you’re more a coward than the any of us to hire someone to do your dirty work.” I let out a held back laugh. Booth looks at me, his brows crumpled and his mouth a fine line. 

“My apologies,” I stifle my laughter, “it’s just that they obviously have you backed into a corner.” 

“Fine. So be it. I’ll kill the president myself.” He declares. Looking at me he says, “I don’t know what your ‘reasons’ are, but I assume you’ll stay out of our way?”

“Why of course,” I smile. 

**********

Now back out on the street I begin walking back to the hospital to see Liz and apologize. I stop. Apologize? For what? She doesn’t know what I do so there’s no point. I’ve never thought to apologize to her about any of it before. I might’ve lost the job, but I can easily find another. Is it because I’m letting them assassinate the man who helped pay for her bills? No. I never asked him to help. He did that on his own. That’s his problem. I keep walking to the Hospital, I want to see her anyway. It’s evening now and the hospital doesn’t allow visitors at night. 

“Mr. Arnold!” Oh no. I look to see boarding into a carriage is the president himself. He stops to step down and see me. 

“Evening Sir. What are your plans for the night?” I ask.

“I’m on my way to the theatre to see a play with my wife. She says I don’t take her out enough,” he grins.

“Oh and which theatre would that be?” I ask, hoping I don’t get the answer I expect. 

“Ford’s Theatre, have you heard of it?”

“Yes...I’ve heard of it,” I say. 

A little boy comes out of the carriage and hugs Lincoln's leg, he looks about 10 or 12 and my heart sinks. Why?

“Father, mum said she’s waiting for you,” the boy proclaims. 

“Tell your mother I’ll be there in a minute, Tad. I’m catching up with a friend.” Tad nods his head as though he accepts this response, then leaves his father’s side and climbs back into the carriage. Lincoln looks back and sees the look on my face. 

“What’s wrong lad, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost?” I say nothing as I pull him behind the carriage.

“Sir, I need you to listen and I need you to listen closely.” His eyebrows raise in response. “At the theatre there will be an attempt on your life, I’m not exactly sure how, but all the same.” I look at him for a panicked response, but his face remains the same. In fact, he laughs. 

“Oh James, there have been a couple attempts on my life already, all have failed,” must be why Booth wanted me so bad, “I do not fear death, in fact, I welcome it. You see,  the south’s main General, Lee,  has already surrendered. It will not be long before this war is over. Maybe a month, give or take. This nation will not be able to reunite under the same president in which this war started. The south will only feel resentment and the north overbearing pride. There needs to be a new President, a new leader, once this is over.” 

I’m speechless, I’m amazed by the courage and the stableness of the President. How can the south possibly hate him?  “Well Sir, I suppose if you’ve accepted it there’s nothing else I can do,” is the only thing I can say. 

Lincoln gives a sad smile, “I’m afraid you can’t, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He takes off his hat and extends it out to me. “Here. I want you to hold on to this for me.” 

“Only if you hold this for me,” I say taking my cap off my head and handing it to him. Once again he laughs. 

“No one has been able to make me laugh this much in a very long time. Yes, I will hold on to this for you. For as however long as I can,” he says putting the cap on his head, “I must be going now. I do hope this isn’t the last we talk.” 

“Safe travels, Mr. President, ” I say. He tips the cap and begins walking back around the carriage. 

Taking the opposite side, I rush to the carriage man’s seat and I hand the man a sack of coins. 

“No questions and it’s all yours. Take them to the theater across town, opposite of Ford’s and say you’ve lost your way.” The man nods his head and the carriage begins moving. I wave to Lincoln and his family as they pass by. 

Ford’s Theater isn’t too far from here. I hail a carriage passing by and ask for a ride. 

**********

I walk in, Lincoln’s top hat on my head, and a long black coat I borrowed from a friend I saw along the way. The show hasn’t yet started. There’s a large rounded stage, the theatre itself is rounded with rows of brown plushed seats lining the building, there’s even an upper level laid out the same way. Pearl white walls, and red velvet carpet covers the floor like a thin layer of icing. Every seat is filled completely, so much so that there are people standing alongside the walls. I see a woman that sticks out to me, she has the same dark brown hair as the President’s wife. I go over to her.

“Hello Madam, how are you this day?” I ask. She at first turns to look at me in what seems like disgust but then her face changes pleasantly.

“Oh hello,” she says with a wide smile. Perfect. “It’s been quite fair, thank you.”

“Well I’m sure a view from the President’s Booth would be the light of your day,” I smile and her face brightens. 

“That would be wonderful! Are you a close friend of the President? Your hat does seem to match his,” she observes. 

“Yes, you could certainly say that,” I put my elbow out for her, “are you coming?” 

“Most certainly!” 

We begin walking around the wall until we get to a door with stairs leading up to the booth. We ascend the stairs and I pull the hat down lower on my face. At the top is another door and a man standing outside. 

“Mrs. and Mr. Lincoln! We’ve been waiting for you, right this way,” he opens the door for us. My newly acquired misses looks up at me, confusion obvious on her face. I just wink in response and that seems to be enough for her. We’re seated in the booth, I move the seats a bit back more in the shadow, enough for the crowd to see us as they stand and clap their hands, but not enough for them to fully recognize us. From here the stage is clear in view below. 

The lights dim and the show starts. It’s only a view moments after the show begins that I hear the faint click of a revolver and I smile.  I’ll see you on the other side of the moon, Liz.

‘MR. PRESIDENT!’ is the last thing I hear.