They had traveled for two weeks and three days. By day, he and Boar hid, crammed like contortionists, behind the false wall of the wagon. At night, Lucien smuggled them, their bodies stiff and sore, into a monastery, church, or abbey. Most evenings, they slept in a barn or cellar. However, tonight was a rare occasion when Ollie had the luxury of a bed, as well as a room to himself. But despite having a warm place to sleep, he was restless. Perhaps it was the rumble of German patrols in the village or that he was about to embark on the last and most dangerous leg of the journey. But deep down, he knew the reason he couldn’t sleep. So he sat up, put on his boots, and crept from his room.

Quietly, he walked down the darkened hall, careful not to disturb the clergy tucked away in their sleeping cells. He stopped when he reached the glimmer of the cloister hall connecting the dormitory to the church sanctuary. A medieval ceiling arched high above his head; a wall of stained-glass windows glowed with luminescence. He sat on the stone floor and stared at the glass mural encrusted with red, green, gold, and purple glass. It depicted the scene of a garden paradise. He supposed the angelic figures and lush garden served as a daily reminder for the priests and monks—a promise of paradise at the end of their earthly lives.

“The world is falling apart.” Ollie’s voice resonated through the hall. “And you do nothing.”

He stared at the angels, their eyes looking away, as if ignoring him or offended by his words. Lowering his head onto his knees, he ran his hands through his oily hair. He sat in the cloister for over an hour, hoping to receive a revelation. But nothing came. Returning to the dormitory, he found Lucien and Boar awake.

“We’re leaving, Yank,” Boar said, standing outside his door. “Best to get started before sunrise.”

Ollie retrieved his coat from his room and returned to the hallway. He stepped to Lucien, who was holding up his slate to show a chalked map. A jagged line depicted the mountain border between France and Spain. A winding band, which Ollie believed to be a river, was marked Bidasoa. There were two dots: Ascain, the village of their current location; and Ergoien, Spain, where Lucien had presumably arranged to hide them in another church until they could be smuggled to a British consulate or, in Ollie’s case, a United States embassy. Ollie nodded, letting the monk know that he understood.

“You’ve done well, Lucien,” Boar said.

Eyes blinked behind the copper mask. Lucien erased the chalk with his sleeve, then tucked his slate inside his cloak.