“I’ll rest when we win the war.” Bertie took a deep breath and straightened his back.

Doctor Collins looked at Susan as he put on his coat. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” He tipped his cap and left.

Susan followed the doctor to his car. She looked down at her wellies, covered with mud. “Will he be all right?”

The doctor tossed his bag into the passenger seat. “Bertie overexerted himself.”

Susan crossed her arms and bit her lip. What did he hear through that stethoscope?

The doctor hesitated, then glanced at the military tent in the yard. “There’s a rumor in Epping that your pigeons have gone off to war.”

Susan ignored his comment. She slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped Ollie’s note.

“You’ll need to pick up Bertie’s duty,” the doctor said, taking a seat behind the wheel. “Until he recovers,” he added.

Susan watched the doctor drive away, the underside of his car scraping the deep ruts left by the convoy of military vehicles. Then she returned to Bertie, who was already asleep on the sofa. He looked exhausted. Mud still crusted his cheeks and clothes. I’ll clean him up later, she decided. Retrieving a worn patchwork quilt her grandmother had sewn together from scrap material, she gently covered him. Many of the other blankets were thicker, softer, and no doubt warmer. But this tattered piece was his favorite.

Bertie opened his eyes and forced a smile. “A wee rest, my dear, and I’ll get back to work.”

Susan tucked the quilt over his shoulders. She glanced at the bottle of pills and wondered if the medicine would collect dust, just like his walking stick. But deep down, she already knew the answer.

CHAPTER 37 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 37

EPPING, ENGLAND

Bertie slept for most of the day. Each hour, Susan checked on him only to find that he hadn’t moved. She’d pause, wait to see his chest rise, then quietly leave. It was quite unnerving for Susan to see her grandfather, always a diligent man, sleeping through the afternoon, even though she knew he needed the rest.

When Bertie finally woke, Susan washed the grime from his face, then gathered a clean set of clothes. While he changed in the living room, given privacy by the curtain strung across the kitchen door, she prepared him broth made from boiled cabbage. As she ladled the watery mixture into a bowl, she wondered if he had told her everything. Had he been dizzy? Did his chest hurt? And if so, would he even tell me? Of course not.