That evening, the man with the bowler hat gave Thomas an army uniform and a kit bag that contained a helmet, a gas mask, boots and polish, a blanket, a notebook and pencil, a mess kit, an entrenching tool, a water flask, cigarettes and matches, a bar of chocolate, and several items Thomas couldn’t identify. The kit had everything a soldier needed for the front line, except a weapon. Thomas had hoped the man would assign him a rifle before sending him to the Western Front, but during his brief orientation, the man made no mention of what Thomas would be using to fight the enemy or when he’d receive it. He’d simply announced that the recruits now belonged to a special unit under someone he called “Hellfire Jack,” and then they lined up for a warm meal of stew, dumplings, and fresh-baked biscuits.

When George slipped out the door that evening after eating two helpings and pocketing several biscuits, Thomas had assumed it would be the last he’d ever see of the street urchin, but George returned the next morning in time for breakfast. He stuck around to watch the first day of training, and when they filed into line for dinner, George joined the queue in front of Thomas with an army uniform tucked under one arm and a kit bag slung over his shoulder.

Thomas had been stuck with a view of George’s back ever since. In line for food. On their daily marches. During every drill. Even now, as he sprinted across Trafalgar Square.

“Hurry up, Tommy!” George yelled. “Or we’ll miss the train!”

At Charing Cross station, the army transport train’s whistle pierced the din of rumbling trolleys, pounding footsteps, and shouting voices. Pulling his coat collar up to shield his face, Charlie Barnett sank lower in his seat at the back of the train and peeked out the window to the platform, where women and children clung to men in uniforms—husbands, fathers, sons—bidding them teary goodbyes.

For the tenth time since Charlie had boarded the train, he checked the platform’s large clock: 5:15 P.M. The train should have left by now. He picked at the torn, dry skin around his thumbnail. He’d never been on a train before, but he’d heard adults say they could set their watches by them. Something was wrong. Charlie switched from picking the skin around his thumb to worrying it with his teeth as a swarm of frightening possibilities buzzed through his mind.

It had been three weeks since he ran away from home. Had his brother, Henry, broken his promise and told their dad of his plan? What if he’d notified the police or the army? What if their dad had sobered up long enough to look for him?

Charlie glanced back at the clock and gnawed a hangnail until it tore free. Blood oozed from the cut and dripped onto the open notebook on Charlie’s lap. He tried to wipe the blood off the pencil sketches he’d drawn while waiting on the train, but managed only to smear the drop, leaving a crimson streak across the unfinished image of a soldier hugging a little boy goodbye on the platform. Closing the notebook, Charlie moved on to his next finger.