Greer had lifted the order to keep Sara and Amy segregated; a body was a body, he said, no reason at this point to split hairs. A lot of men had been injured in the raid; mostly small things, cuts and scratches and sprains, but one soldier had a broken collarbone, and two more, Sancho and Withers, had been badly burned in the detonation. The battalion’s two medical corpsmen had been killed, so with Amy helping her, Sara had taken over caring for the wounded, preparing them as best she could for the trip south. Peter and Hollis had been assigned to the packing crews, whose job was to sort through the contents of two large supply tents, culling what would travel with them and moving the rest to storage in a series of dugouts spread through the compound. Michael had more or less disappeared into the motor pool; he slept in the barracks, took his meals elbow to elbow with the other oilers. Even his name was gone, replaced by Lugnut.

Over everything, the question of the evacuation hung like a blade. Peter had yet to give Greer his answer, because the truth was, he didn’t know. The others—Sara and Hollis and Michael and even Amy, in her quiet, inward way—were all waiting, giving him the space to decide. That they said nothing on the subject made this fact all the more obvious. Or maybe they were simply avoiding him, for all he knew. Either way, leaving the safety of the garrison now seemed more perilous than ever. Greer had cautioned him that with the mine disturbed, the woods would be crawling; perhaps, he suggested, it would be best to wait until they returned next summer. He’d talk to Division, persuade them to mount a proper expedition. Whatever’s up that mountain, Greer said, it’s been there a long time. Surely it can wait another year.

The evening of the second day after Alicia’s return, Peter came into his tent to find Hollis alone, sitting on his cot. A winter parka was draped over his shoulders; he was holding a guitar in his lap.

“Where’d you find that?”

Hollis was idly plucking notes, his face drawn in concentration. He looked up and gave a smile through his heavy beard, which by now climbed halfway up his cheeks. “One of the oilers had it. Friend of Michael’s.” He blew on his hands and plucked a few more notes, nibbling around the edges of a melody that Peter couldn’t quite discern. “It’s been so long I thought I’d forgotten how to play.”

“I didn’t know you could.”

“I can’t, not really. Arlo was always the one.”

Peter sat on the bunk across from him. “Go on. Play something.”

“I don’t remember much. Just a song or two.”

“Then play that. Play anything.”