“Brilliant, Yank. The bird could be shot down, then the Nazis will have a map to find us.”

“She’s a pigeon.”

“Same thing. Can’t believe we wasted the lives of airmen on a bloody bird mission.”

Boar’s words caused Ollie to stop. He recalled his last morning with Susan and ran his hand over the lump inside his jacket. “I won’t be able to sleep during the mission,” Susan had said as the soldiers were loading pigeons onto their trucks. “Will you stay up with me again tonight?” He’d looked into her eyes and said, “There’s no place I’d rather be.” But now he was behind enemy lines. She probably thinks I’m dead. A wretched ache burrowed into his chest, dwarfing the pain in his shoulder.

“Save it for later, Yank,” Boar said. “We’ll need that bird to send back intelligence, assuming we find anything worth reporting.”

Ollie put away the paper and pencil, then took Duchess from her cage. He placed her at his feet. She made no effort to fly, only stretched her wings and waddled in a circle. As he waited for either Madeleine or the Nazis to return, he passed the time by watching Duchess peck at his bootlaces.

In less than an hour, Madeleine returned with her hog and an old man carrying a black leather bag. He was bald, except for a mustache and white bushy eyebrows that looked like twin albino caterpillars crawling over his brow. “Médecin,” Madeleine said, stepping into the barn.

The man, whom Ollie believed to be a doctor, stared at the injured lieutenant. He glanced at Ollie’s dropped shoulder, nervously twisted the tip of his mustache, and said something in French to Madeleine.

“We go inside,” Madeleine said.

She led them to her house, a small stucco cottage with a thatched roof. The doctor guided the lieutenant by the arm as Ollie limped. Reaching the door, Madeleine patted her hog on the head and said, “Reste, Louis. Nous travaillons bientôt.” The hog snorted, then nestled into a worn patch of earth next to a shrub.

Inside, the doctor sat Boar on a wooden stool and motioned for Ollie to remove his jacket.

Ollie carefully took off his jacket, wincing as it slid over his shoulder.

The doctor ran his hand over Ollie’s back and shoulder blade, then slowly raised Ollie’s arm.

Ollie groaned. His shoulder felt like it was being stretched in a torture rack, ligaments and tendons about to snap.

The doctor lowered Ollie’s arm. “Disloqué,” he mumbled, then spoke to Madeleine.

Madeleine looked at Ollie. “Your shoulder is dislocated. It’s badly swollen, and he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to reset it.”

Ollie swallowed and looked at the frail doctor, his arms like pipe cleaners. “Then I’ll do it myself.”

Madeleine shook her head. “He’d like for him to set it,” she said, pointing to Boar.