“I can do this.” She noticed a weakening in her grandfather’s eyes, a slight drop in his shoulders. “Be on the porch with your walking stick.”

Before Bertie could argue, she turned and ran down the drive. Gravel and mud clumped to her shoes. Her heart pounded as she passed the lofts, a third of which were empty, either on their way to France or facing an inferno at North Weald. The sheep huddled inside the barn preparing for rain, fooled by the rumble of human thunder. A few lambs lay in the field nibbling grass, their legs tucked feebly under their bellies. Their ears twitched at the beat of Susan’s footsteps.

Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. But she didn’t stop until reaching the McCreary farm. Running up the stone path that led to the house, she slipped because of the mud on her shoes and fell, scraping the palms of her hands. Pain shot through her forearms. Quickly brushing away bits of gravel embedded in her skin, she stood and knocked on the door. Seconds passed. Her eardrums pounded with the pulse of her blood. She sucked in air, a rasping attempt to catch her breath. A jolt of fear shocked her body as she realized that the McCrearys may have left for a shelter. Scanning the farm, she noticed the lorry parked near a shed. She knocked harder, bruising her knuckles.

Rustling came from inside the house. A lock clicked, and the door creaked open to reveal old man McCreary holding a lantern, like he had emerged from a cave.

“Who is it?” Mrs. McCreary said, coming up from the cellar.

Before Mr. McCreary could answer, Susan said, “It’s Susan Shepherd. May I borrow your lorry?”

Mr. McCreary started to speak, his eyes widened as he realized that he had forgotten to put in his dentures, and quickly covered his mouth.

“Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. McCreary said, stepping in front of her husband. Her scraggly white hair sprouted from a poorly tied bun.

“No,” Susan said, catching her breath. She pressed her hand to her side, trying to suppress a cramp.

“Bertie?” Mrs. McCreary asked.

“He’s fine.” She sucked in gulps of air. “We don’t have our lorry. It’s an emergency.”

“It’s bloody raining bombs,” Mr. McCreary said.

“Albert!” Mrs. McCreary snapped.

The old man clamped his gums, making his cheeks sag.

“Please,” Susan said. “I’ll explain later.” Susan thought of Ollie and her pigeons. Her eyes watered.

Mrs. McCreary nodded. “Would you like Albert to drive you?”

The old man’s toothless jaw dropped.

“No,” Susan said.

Mr. McCreary breathed a sigh of relief, then retrieved a key from a hook in the foyer and handed it to Susan.

“Thank you.” She took the key and ran.

“Be careful, dear,” Mrs. McCreary called after her.