As Thomas stood before Feathers’s grave, he thought back to the bodies strewn across no-man’s-land. Each dead soldier had been replaced without a funeral, without a proper burial.

If we don’t bury our dead, the war will, and us with them.

As they walked back to the dugout with Feathers’s empty cage, Thomas thought of James. If his brother was among the dead on or under no-man’s-land, he deserved to be laid to rest. They all did. Whether James was dead or alive, Thomas would find his brother and bring him home.

When they arrived at the dugout with Feathers’s empty cage, they found a new cage sitting on the corner shelf, and a new canary chirping from its perch.

EIGHTEEN

FREDERICK LOOKED UP from his notebook when Thomas entered the dugout. He was relieved to see Thomas alive and well, but his shame over neglecting his duties in the tunnel and nearly costing Thomas his life strangled the apology he knew he owed.

After reassuring Bagger and the rest of the crew that he was fine, Thomas collapsed on his bunk with Max curled up next to him. He was asleep before the others finished eating. George glowered at Frederick as he hopped up onto his bunk, and Charlie refused to look Frederick’s way as he placed the old cage on the floor by the wall before climbing onto his own bunk, where he silently stared into the new birdcage. Charlie only looked up once, when Mole announced they’d call the new canary Feathers.

“He should have his own name,” Charlie said, dropping a biscuit crumb into the cage.

“Fine,” Mole said. “We’ll call him Feathers the Second.”

“Actually,” Boomer said, ticking off numbers on his stubby fingers, “he’d be Feathers the Seventh.”

“You’ve lost six canaries?” George asked.

“I think so. This is our seventh, right, Bagger?”

Bagger shrugged.

“He deserves his own name,” Charlie said between clenched teeth.

Bagger smiled. “Look at little Mouse standing up for himself. You might have to give him a new nickname, Shillings.”

George stared at Charlie with an expression of shock and amused admiration. “I just might.”

“Call the bird what you want, Mouse,” Mole said, opening a can of bully beef. “But down here, it’s wise not to get too attached.” The words of advice, spoken with kindness, struck Charlie like a punch to the gut. Turning away from the advice and the rest of the crew so they wouldn’t see his tears, Charlie fed the new canary another crumb.

The next morning, Frederick woke to the sound of crying. Disoriented, he jolted up and slammed his head on the bottom of Charlie’s bunk before scrambling to his feet. Rubbing the knot swelling on his forehead, he put on his glasses and looked for the source of the sobs. Except for George’s loud snoring, the dugout was silent. The men were not on their bunks, and Max was no longer snuggled up next to Thomas.

At first, Frederick thought the crying was coming from Charlie, who he’d heard sniffing back tears before Frederick fell asleep, but when he peeked at the upper bunk, he found Charlie sleeping quietly, his fingers resting against the birdcage.