Please burn this letter after you read it, for obvious reasons. And for God’s sake, give the messenger something for me in return, even if it’s just a few scribbled words. I miss you, and I’m worried.

Love as always from your cousin,

Izzy

CHAPTER 35SCAR

September 5, 1942

Courchene’s scar had healed without infection, a testament to Violet’s impeccable surgery skills. She removed the sutures for him one night in the surgery at St Paul’s. She should have done it months ago, but with all that had been going on, normal follow-up procedures had fallen by the wayside. The scar ran the length of his belly diagonally, a long mouth cut for him by a man in a different uniform, eyes blazing rage at what the century had offered him, a man who looked but didn’t act like a brother. It was a miracle his gut wasn’t punctured. The slash followed its outer contours identically, an exquisite brushstroke the length of half an intestinal convolution. He ran his fingers along the ridge that was left after the stitches were gone. It was bumpy and coarse. Though the pain was no longer stabbing, it ached in a cold, bony sort of way. His was the last surgery that Violet had done before fleeing the horror of St Stephen’s. He watched her now at the sink, a seamstress of human flesh. She carefully washed her tools, her face folded in determination and sorrow. Her unkempt black hair was already tinged with white. Had she sewn her own grief into his belly, to join all the sad spirits already swimming there? Mother Mary knew that he had enough of his own grief without taking on hers. Or Emily’s, for that matter, though Emily’s was clearer, less amorphous, sharper, and more vivid in its lines. Courchene had had plenty enough of his own grief before he even came to this steaming jungle, packed wall to wall with starving cousins hell-bent on destroying each other. He’d come trying to escape his own frustration and rage. He had no desire to take on someone else’s. He really did not want to stuff it into his belly.