“No, Sergeant.” He’d reached the expiration date. Clay ran after Lombardi and shouted “sorry” to the wounded man.

Holman kicked open the front door of the town hall, Ruby threw in a smoke grenade, and the rest of the men stormed inside. Within five minutes, the hall was secured.

Afterward, Clay headed back outside. Two medics were loading the injured man onto a stretcher.

Clay fastened the pouch for his first aid kit. The urge to heal was strong, but he had to suppress it for the greater good.

The company fell into formation and marched back to camp double time for lunch. In the afternoon they’d have lectures and demonstrations on demolitions and booby traps.

G. M. marched beside Clay on the dirt road while cicadas hummed in the grass and scrub oak. “Going to the hospital again tonight?”

“If I can.”

“Sounds like a date.” Gene’s grin spread wide and goofy. “Mark my words. You’re going to join the ranks of us married men.”

Clay whistled. He still couldn’t believe Gene was getting married on Saturday. His friend had never been happier, but how many of these rushed wartime marriages would last?

“So . . . ?” Gene turned the full goofiness to Clay.

“So what? She’s like a little sister.” Clay swatted away a cloud of red dust.

Gene swatted too. “I’ve got a little sister, and I don’t treat her that nice.”

“You’re a bad brother.”

Now Gene swatted Clay. “I’m a great brother, but I don’t play violin for her.”

Clay had borrowed a violin from the service club, and when the nurse allowed it, he played classical music and American folk songs for the ladies on the ward.

He avoided mariachi tunes to keep the memories of playing with his brothers at bay. The Gringo Mariachis—stupid name for a group. Clay was only half gringo.

“You’re over there almost every evening.”

Clay shrugged. “She doesn’t have any family, and she hasn’t been in Tennessee long enough to make friends. She’s lonely and bored.”

“I bet she loves your visits.” Gene stretched out the word love so long no one could miss his meaning.

But Clay pretended to. “I reckon she enjoys them.”

At the front of the formation, someone began singing “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree,” and Clay joined in to shut down conversation.

Leah always brightened when Clay visited, but not in an infatuated sort of way. Clay felt bad for her. He played for her and read to her. Now that she could sit up and use her arms, he brought magazines and books.

Her improving health did his heart good. She’d looked so pale and weak on his first visit, determined to be cheerful but obviously shaken.

Over time she was regaining color, and her cheer seemed less forced.