And there Will was, his ass up against the sand pit he’d dug with his hands, taking a shit with his pants down just enough. The memory had almost disappeared. But he sensed it perfectly now: His team had taken cover for an hour, up to necks in the trenches, been surprised by a convoy, but stayed undetected as they realized this convoy meant to spend the night. The only choice was to keep still and buried. He remembered scooping his own shit away from his backside, pushing it into the sand as far as his arm would reach.

It hadn’t bothered him. His own ills didn’t much. Now, looking at Captain Mary “Extra” Goodwin—narrow shoulders, high curved forehead—he saw why he was stuck in remorse. He thought about fighting out from it. On average the majority of men sheltered women. A selection of men, small but resolute, broke free. Wasn’t he one of them? Wasn’t exceptionalism his post-Panama creed?

He took a step into her room. The orderly had disappeared again, into the consternation down the hall. He knew she had no family—there’d be no guests. He knew without really knowing that she had to be a loner. He recognized his own kind. He moved to the foot of the bed, thinking he might just get a closer look. She was bundled, though the top of her head was uncovered. Just above it he saw the envelope taped to the wall with her name, Mary, and a word—what did it mean?—after it. Mirabilis. Oh, it had to be her last name. He thought for one false moment she had gotten married—was Mirabilis her new surname?—but he shook that away, confused. He backed out of the room, through the doorway, aware of his surroundings, and the new quiet where the noise had been down the hall. Someone would be coming.

Adam.”

“Don.”

“Thanks for doing this,” said Don Grady, who was distracted. He had missed the two o’clock. Really, he didn’t need to go. No, he forgot to go.

Adam couldn’t tell what Don meant. He gave his automatic response. “Not a problem.”

“I really appreciate it,” Don said, pushing the two o’clock away. He had to get Adam solo, and the best time for that was after the two o’clock, though not exactly as it closed. Adam was always waylaid then. It was the time when someone could buttonhole Adam and avoid the public walk to his office, the glass wall that showed the someone in the office, the expressions on Adam’s face in the office, and the transmittal of these particulars to the Room. Don, who was used to being watched, cared nothing about these visuals. He just wanted no one to hear.

“So,” Adam began. He waited. Nothing. He tried, “How can I help?”