“Get to the support trenches! Now!” a gruff voice ordered.

And then they were running again. Timber beams and clay walls blurred past. Night air chilled Thomas’s damp hair and clammy skin as they broke free from the tunnels and pressed through the trenches. Thomas’s head fell back. His unfocused eyes trailed the full moon glowing against the darkness of the early morning sky.

The arms eased him gently onto a bench. “Take deep breaths, Thomas.” Frederick’s face came into focus. He held a canteen up to Thomas’s lips. “Drink.”

Thomas took one small sip and then another. His throat burned with each swallow.

“As soon as we can get a medic, we will,” Charlie said. “Stay awake until then.”

Max jumped into Thomas’s lap. Thomas winced at the pain in his leg but wrapped the dog up in a tight embrace while Max licked his face. Frederick and Charlie sat on either side of him.

“Are you all right?” Charlie asked.

Thomas didn’t answer.

“We didn’t think we’d get you out of there in time,” Frederick said.

“George.” Thomas forced the name through his aching throat.

Charlie’s head dipped forward.

“Mole said they were able to break through faster because George had dug out a lot of clay on your side,” Frederick said. “We would never have gotten you out in time if he hadn’t.”

“Did Mole go back for him?” Thomas asked.

“He wanted to,” Frederick said, “but Boomer stopped him. He said they couldn’t risk more men getting caught in a collapse this close to zero hour.”

“They were still arguing when Mole ordered that we carry you to the support trenches,” Charlie said.

Fresh tears welled in Thomas’s eyes. “It’s all my fault.”

Frederick placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known the gallery would collapse.”

Shifting his leg to try to find a less painful position, Thomas heard something crinkle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked.

Thomas opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of British pounds and a small brown ledger. “George’s winnings and pay book.” His fingers went numb holding the money his friend had worked so hard to win and earn.

“There’s more,” Frederick said, pointing to a folded piece of paper that had fallen into Thomas’s lap.

Thomas opened it.

“That’s the letter I wrote for you,” Frederick said. “The one you asked me to write to your family in case—” He didn’t finish his thought.

The letter shook in Thomas’s trembling hands. “I gave this to George to deliver to my parents. He must have put it and the money in my pocket when he realized—” Unbearable grief bowed Thomas’s head and strangled his words. “He shouldn’t have been down there. None of you should have. This is all my fault.” Sobs shook his shoulders. “George gave me his mask. Why did he do that?”

“You tried to do the same for him,” Frederick said.

“But I was too late.”