Distracted by thoughts of his latest failure, Thomas shuffled behind the crowd until, one by one, people peeled off from the mob and there was no longer a crowd to follow. He’d assumed the people he’d followed out of Trafalgar Square had been headed to Charing Cross, but when he looked around for signs of the train station, he didn’t recognize any of the buildings lining the unfamiliar street. The sun had retreated behind a row of tall tenements, siphoning the buildings and their inhabitants of color and warmth.

Thomas stopped, uncertain how far he’d walked from Trafalgar Square. He entered a shop to ask for help and directions back to Charing Cross, where he prayed a kind soul would give him enough money to cover his fare home to Dover. Seconds later, a clerk’s angry voice chased him back onto the street. “If you’re looking for charity, find a church!”

Thomas sat outside the shop and yanked the boots from his feet. Hot tears burned behind his eyes as he pulled the wads of damp cloth from his boots and tossed them in the sewer. He needed to find somewhere safe to wait until morning. His mum had warned him of the crimes committed on the streets of London in the light of day. He didn’t wish to be a witness to the criminals plying their shameful trade in the dark of night, or worse yet, become their victim.

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he stood and started back the way he’d come. He hoped to retrace his steps to Trafalgar Square and then to Charing Cross station, but as he passed the shop door, cold dread spilled down his spine, stopping him in his tracks. At the end of the block stood the street urchin from Trafalgar Square, smoking a cigarette. He smiled at Thomas and waved.

Thomas stumbled back, nearly knocking over the old shop clerk in his escape. He tried to apologize, but the clerk raised a hand to deliver a cuff to the side of Thomas’s head. Thomas ducked the strike and ran. When he came to the next corner, he sprinted down an alley, determined to lose his stalker once and for all.

George stubbed out his cigarette and strolled down the block and past an alleyway to the next street, where he hopped over a small crater in the road and stepped around broken bricks, shards of glass, and splintered wooden beams that had once stood as the front wall of a pub. A German zeppelin had changed that months earlier. Three men, including the owner, had died in the London bombing. The wreckage served as a stark reminder that the battlefields did not wholly contain this war and soldiers weren’t its only victims.

The memory of the bombing yanked George’s gaze skyward. He scoured the evening sky for Germany’s massive silver airships, but found only sweeps of gray clouds hanging over London like a sooty fog. Assured he was safe for the moment, he reclined against the door frame of a tenement building and waited.