“I wonder what actually survives a war?”

Martha shook her head as the elevator doors opened.

“You’ll definitely need breakfast if you want to face off with mon general,” Jess said, fixing on the practicalities. “Hemingway’s attracted a band of followers and you’ll want something to line your stomach before you fight your way through them to be admitted into his presence.”

Her words came to an abrupt halt when they reached the mess and Emile, with shaven head, pushed past them into the room and was greeted with cheers and applause. He looked back over his shoulder at Jess, face triumphant.

“On second thought, breakfast might make me sick,” Jess said, turning away, nausea rising in her throat as if her body wanted to purge itself of her past with Emile, knowing that while she hadn’t done anything wrong, she felt ashamed of herself for ever having loved him. “How are we going to stand any more of this?” she said quietly.

“You know he shaved his own head,” Martha said.

“It doesn’t matter. They all think that having sex with a woman is a joke they must share with the world.” Jess shook her head. “They’re never going to let us out of here, are they? Every morning I wake up and think, today will be the day, and Iris and Lee agree and then it doesn’t happen and we all drag our heels off to a story nobody cares about. What are we doing? Should we just quit?”

“I don’t know,” Martha said, uncharacteristically short of a perky comeback. “I just don’t know.”

* * *

After covering another fashion show, Jess returned to the Scribe late in the evening, more than ready for a drink—but nothing as bubbly as champagne—her words from that morning echoing in her head like the concussion of shell bursts: Should we just quit? She was doing nothing of use and every day that she took pictures of fashion shows her self-respect and her dignity withered a little more; people were dying and that was what mattered, not what dresses might be in fashion next season. Soon she would have no pride left. Warren would have prevailed and Jess would be just someone who’d once had something important to say.

“Anyone got whiskey?” she muttered to Martha, who was at their usual table in the bar with Lee and Iris.

“We’re going to be alcoholics by the end of the war at this rate,” Iris said glumly as Martha organized the drinks for what felt like a funeral and they all began to drink steadily and not at all slowly.

“What are we going to do?” Jess asked.

Before anyone could reply, Major Mayborn appeared and Jess felt herself default to her once infamous smile.

“I thought you might be happy with this,” the major said, saluting Jess, Iris and Lee, handing them all a piece of paper, and then walking away.

Confused, Jess watched him leave, the paper squashed in her hand. “It’s not a goddamn court-martial, surely?” she said. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”