The war’s wreaked havoc on utilities here, which weren’t that dependable to begin with. All maintenance goes to the war effort. Consumers have to muddle through; fair enough. It’s nothing like what they went through in either great war, I know, but if the cease-fire falls through and this drags on longer, it’ll get worse than bad internet and drops in cell phone service. From what Jo tells me, food shipments have now become quite the negotiation, wait times for medical supplies and prescriptions longer and longer, and, up until last week’s cease-fire, the front lines inching closer and closer.

“I don’t think you understand, Nina,” Hugh says slowly, like I’m one of the children. My breath goes reflexively toxic in my lungs. He doesn’t often talk to me like this, but lord, when he does. “We need to get online. This could be our last chance to…”

He swallows, neck bobbing hard, physically obliterating the rest of the sentence. These are tough days for him. A looming anniversary, and not just ours. I get it.

I reach for his hand. He pulls it back. “Did you have any luck with the airfield in—?”

“No, I didn’t have any luck. My phone cut out the second I managed to finally get somebody on the line, didn’t it? And it won’t come back, no signal whatsoever.” He leans on the desk with his fists.

“Let me try mine.”

I turn away for the lighter air of the corridor, but Hugh shouts, “Nobody’s phone is working! I’ve asked around. Mobile tower’s down.”

That startles me into stopping. “Down?”

I picture that tower up by the barrow, no longer rising over the scarred landscape where they dug out the old graves, but tumbled, ripped down from beneath.

“Not knocked down, Nina, just not working.” He slides into a leather armchair, slumping in defeat. He looks desolate, but it’s a small improvement.

I slide back inside, shut the door behind me, and find a perch beside him. “Jo said this kind of thing tends to happen.”

I roll my eyes, smiling.

He doesn’t smile back. “She’s wrong. I can’t ever remember phones breaking down. Internet. Aerials.”

Panic shoots through me. “You think it’s to do with the war?”

It’s always hovered in the periphery of my regularly scheduled anxiety—the possibility that they were all wrong. That we’re not safe. That we will be invaded, and this time, we won’t be so lucky. If we’ve got all those warships lined up to protect the Bristol Channel, there must be an equal force to attack.

But Hugh huffs, swatting the idea away like a gnat.

“No, God, it’s nothing to do with the war.” He leans forward. “Have you seen Matty?”

I’m so surprised to hear him call Matthew Clare by his nickname that I don’t immediately reply.