Something heavy hit the earth just behind and dirt skittered across the surface of the water in the shell hole. He heard a catch in Francis’s breath. It was only then, as Harry looked up, that he saw it. The blade in Francis’s hand glimmered as light rolled in the sky above. The rhythm of his breathing quickened. The white blade moved. Francis’s grimed fingers held the knife out toward Harry. For just a moment he felt its cool steel touch on his throat, at the very spot where Edie’s red ribbon had burned. He heard himself gasp. Whatever menace there was in the gesture, though, it wasn’t there in Francis’s eyes.

“I know. I’ve always known. Do you love her?” he said.

Harry put his hand out to the knife. He curled his hand around his brother’s and pulled Francis’s fingers away. “Yes,” he said. There was no firmness, no resolution, in Francis’s grip. The penknife fell from his fingers. Harry folded it shut. He almost wished that there had been more certainty, more strength, in Francis’s grip. He looked at the knife. It was the same penknife with which they had carved their initials onto the wall of a barn; three sets of joined letters, side by side and so long ago. “Yes,” he said again, “I always have.” Was it grief or relief or just fatigue that showed in Francis’s eyes then? He nodded and his eyes closed. Rifle fire spat earth from the lip of the shell hole. Francis’s eyelids didn’t flinch. Would their plaster initials still be there after they had all gone? Would she outlive them all? Did it matter then if they both loved her?

Francis rolled onto his front and lay with his cheek against the earth. Harry wondered if they could just stay here, could just crawl backward or forward later when this thing had resolved itself in either direction. It stank worse than a latrine in this shell hole and the cold was creeping up his legs, but he didn’t want to leave. He watched his brother’s sleeping face. Harry wanted to sleep too, deep undreaming sleep. He wanted to curl into his brother’s back and to sleep it all away. But then Corporal Brady was bellowing and there was a bayonet between his shoulder blades.

“Up, scum.” Spittle hit Francis’s back as Corporal Brady screamed down at him.