Mrs. Weatherford gave a purse of her lips that almost resembled a smile. “Well, you do enough for the two of us. You must keep your strength up.”

“What if someone needed you?”

“Nobody needs me.”

“I do,” Grace protested. “And there’s a boy who could use some help.”

“A boy?” Mrs. Weatherford regarded Grace with tired, barely tethered patience.

Grace explained how he’d come to listen to her read and the state he was in. “I don’t believe he has parents to care for him, and he’s too old to go to an orphanage.”

Mrs. Weatherford sat back in her chair. “The poor dear.”

Sadly, many children were in such a state. Although orphanages were filling up with those who actually went, it wasn’t uncommon for the older kids to take their chances on the streets instead. They didn’t need anyone, or so they thought. The state of them suggested otherwise with their tattered clothing and hollowed cheeks.

Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “But what can I possibly do?”

Grace lifted a shoulder. “I hoped you’d know. I haven’t a thought how I can help, but I feel like someone must do something before he wastes away. There are too many other people in need for anyone to care for the likes of him.”

Mrs. Weatherford went silent at that. But Grace saw her eyes narrow, flickering with a hint of the spark that once gleamed there. Though the older woman carried on with disinterest, her mind was clearly winding through possible solutions.

The ARP shift that night was difficult. There were so many bombs, one Grace and Mr. Stokes had narrowly avoided, and far too much death. The Germans had begun implementing the use of landmine bombs, which floated down on parachutes and whose explosions caused damage that could spread as far as two miles.

No matter how many victims Grace saw to, she still found herself affected by every one. Each name scored on her heart, each memory burned into her brain. She was not alone in how death had affected her. The heavy rescue service, the men who dug through rubble for bodies, or whatever was left, passed a flask around as they worked, unable to perform their grisly tasks without the aid of spirits. They too never would grow used to what they witnessed.

So, when Grace, weary and soul-worn, came home that morning to the scent of baking bread, it did much to lift her downtrodden disposition. Especially when it had been half an age since Mrs. Weatherford had baked, putting to use the secret bags of flour. It was a good thing she had so frugally tucked them away. The months had shown them that just because something was not rationed did not mean it was any easier to come by.

And Grace thought she knew who would receive that coveted loaf.