Clay puffed out a breath, and Ruby shook his head. Things weren’t going well.

The commanders talked in voices low enough to conceal their words, but not their anxiety.

Everything about the night felt sideways. Clay wasn’t supposed to be here. Since he hadn’t died on D-day, when would he? The war in Europe could last weeks, months, even years. When would he see that pillbox from his dreams? Would he ever?

What if he . . . survived? What then? He hadn’t even considered having a future since the recurring dream had begun.

Something strange and energizing filled his chest. Hope. It was hope. Hope of reconciliation and love and family.

For the past few months, he’d occasionally desired a future. Now, on the far side of D-day, that longing had grown into hope. And hope was even more dangerous than desire.

Clay groaned and checked his rifle ammo. BAR ammunition was scarce, and few grenades remained. Some of the men were using German guns and grenades.

Thanks to Frank Lyons, Clay still had two American grenades. He’d given Lyons’s BAR and ammo to a Ranger who’d lost his rifle.

Clay rested against the cold dirt wall of his foxhole and peeked through the hedgerow. Peeking back at him from behind thin clouds, an almost-full moon cast silvery light on the long narrow wheat field, bound by hedgerows.

His eyelids dragged low, and he shook himself. He’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours, and in that time he’d eaten two pancakes aboard the Ben-my-Chree and part of a chocolate D ration bar.

Clay pulled out the D ration and gnawed off a bite. Bitterness warped his mouth, but it’d keep him awake. The Army had designed the bars to taste bad so soldiers would save them for emergencies. It certainly worked.

Ruby’s head slumped forward. Clay extended his elbow to nudge him, then retracted it. Let the man sleep while he could.

Shuffling in the dirt behind him. Sergeant Markowitz from another section squatted by Clay’s foxhole. “Lieutenant Taylor says if the Krauts attack again, retreat to the point. And no wild firing. Save your ammo.”

Clay sighed. “Yes, Sarge.” He didn’t want to retreat, but if they’d lost D Company, they’d lost their right flank. The Germans could infiltrate behind them and cut them off.

Markowitz proceeded down the lane to Brady and Holman’s foxhole.

“All I know is I’m not surrendering,” Ruby muttered. “They’re not taking me alive.”

“Yeah. I understand.” If the Germans murdered their Jewish neighbors, how would they treat Jewish soldiers fighting for the enemy?

No matter what, Clay would protect Ruby. Maybe Clay was meant to die in the hedgerows. Maybe it wasn’t the location of his death that mattered, but the fact of his death.

Whistles sounded in the field to the south, and the wheat rustled.