“Arrêtez!” Madeleine shouted from the yard.

Boar aimed at the rear window. The only reason he hadn’t used his pistol to kill the Nazi was that the shots would have alerted the Wehrmacht. But now he didn’t care. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Madeleine scrambled toward the porch. Her hog squealed. She waved her arms. “Please . . . no!”

Boar squinted. His depth perception, with one eye, was gone. As he narrowed his sight on the silhouette behind the wheel, Madeleine grabbed his arm, causing him to lose his target.

“He’s trying to help,” Madeleine said.

“Idiot.” He lowered his pistol and watched the car disappear.

Louis brushed Madeleine’s leg. She patted her hog on the head. It snorted and nestled under a bush.

Madeleine paused to catch her breath, then retrieved Ollie’s jacket and shirt from the yard and went inside the cottage.

Boar, noticing that a patch of Madeleine’s hair was soaked with blood, slipped the pistol into his holster. He followed her inside and helped her into a chair. Taking her handkerchief, he dipped the end in a pitcher of water and softly dabbed her scalp.

“Merci.” She looked at him.

Boar cleared his throat. “I’m blind in my right eye.”

“I’ll call the docteur.”

Boar shook his head. “It’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

He continued examining her wound. “Broke your mirror, I’m afraid.”

She sighed. “Just as well. I haven’t had a reason to look at myself in quite some time.”

Boar pressed on her cut until the bleeding stopped. He cleaned her hair, leaving a section of gray roots dyed red.

Madeleine took the handkerchief from Boar and placed it on the table. She rummaged through an ashtray and plucked the remnant tail of a cigarette. She dusted it with a finger, lit it, and handed it to him.

He took a drag and tasted ash. A tiny amount of burnt tobacco filled his lungs.

Madeleine stood and grabbed her coat.

“You should lie down.” Boar dropped the smoldering nub of paper into the ashtray.

She ignored him and retrieved a hat hanging on a hook next to her truffle bag and placed it on her head. She adjusted the brim to cover the protrusion on her temple. “The Nazis will notice a missing officer.” She buttoned her coat and opened the door. “They’ll retrace Dietrich’s steps, including his visits to requisition my truffles.”

A gust of cold air brushed Boar’s face. “Where are you going?”

“To talk with my friend.” Madeleine looked at him. “You leave tomorrow.” She stepped outside and shut the door.

He thought about stopping her. But it didn’t matter. In fact, nothing mattered anymore. Although his heart beat, his lungs held air, and his limbs worked, he was broken. Worthless. Every fiber in his body wanted to fight. But now, even if he did make it back to Britain, he’d never command a squadron. Nor would he be allowed to fight with one eye. At best, he’d be assigned to work behind a desk. Bloody hell. He pulled out his pistol and took inventory of his ammunition, including the bullets in the extra clip that was attached to his belt. Consumed with resentment, he resolved to kill as many Nazis as he could and save one bullet for himself. And perhaps another for the Yank.