“Maybe?” The truth of the matter was that she hadn’t seen her dearest friend since dawn, and then only as they had driven past each other in the farmyard being used as a field hospital. Estelle had tried very hard all day not to think about all the awful things that might have befallen her. Tried very hard not to imagine Rachel wounded or dead, her ambulance crippled or obliterated by the steady shelling.

Even now, the ceaseless guns roared and rattled, almost drowning out the screams and moans of the wounded and dying awaiting transport. The air was stagnant and gritty, and the stench of gunpowder and smoke mingled with the sharp scent of blood and urine. Estelle put a hand on the ambulance door for a moment to steady herself before she hurried forward toward the next group of wounded men waiting to get to the field hospital.

She crouched beside a soldier lying motionless on his stretcher, his arm flung to the side, his entire head swathed in blood-and-dirt-caked rags.

“Leave that one,” Jerome said gruffly. “He didn’t make it. See if the one beside him is still alive. I’ll be right back to help you load.”

She reached for the soldier’s lifeless hand and rested it gently on his chest. The gold of a wedding band glinted in the sunlight filtering through the haze.

Twenty-three widows.

She touched the band. A Hebrew word had been engraved in a familiar—

“No.” Estelle froze for a fraction of a second before she fumbled for his tags. She pulled them from beneath his stained uniform. They were sticky with congealing blood but were still legible. Alain Wyler.

Estelle dropped the tags and lurched away from the body as if that would make what she already knew less real. Her throat constricted, and she fought the urge to simply collapse and weep, because that would accomplish nothing in the face of so much suffering and death and loss. Instead, she struggled to her feet, though her vision seemed to waver and the ground tilted precariously beneath her. She found herself on her hands and knees, nausea roiling through her.

“Jesus, Allard, when did you last eat?” Jerome was back, crouching beside her, one of his hands resting on her shoulder.

“Yesterday?” It was hard to remember. It was harder still to keep the days separate.

Jerome grunted. “Here.” What looked like a piece of dried sausage was thrust in front of her face. “Eat this. I’ve got enough casualties without adding you to the goddamn list.”

Estelle sat back on her heels and did as she was told. She accepted the additional offer of a canteen and took careful sips of tepid water.

“Have you slept?”

“Enough.” An hour or so sometime between midnight and two. There wasn’t time for sleeping.