And so Cate sat, crouched in mud that was making her lose the feeling in her toes, using a pretend knife and fork, eating pretend beans and potatoes. Tears spilled then, dropping in plops down Jack’s cheeks and spilling fast down hers as she chewed her imaginary dinner and wondered if, real or not, it could be her last.

Cate touched her palm to Jack’s cheek. He was cold and clammy, and although she wasn’t surprised by the damp or the cold, given the conditions, she was worried about how long he’d been sleeping.

“Jack,” she said, giving him a gentle shake. “Jack, wake up.”

He grunted, but didn’t open his eyes. She pushed his shoulder more forcibly this time.

“Jack! Come on, wake up.”

His eyes opened a slither then, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know.” She crouched down low, cringing at the mud squelching around her ankles. “It’s getting dark again, we’ve been here all day.”

They’d both managed to fall asleep after their pretend feast, her far more fitfully than Jack, who’d as good as been knocked out cold the past few hours—she’d checked him every time she’d stirred. The ground rumbling at times had woken her, as had yells and almost constant gunfire that came and went with varying intensity, but she’d still managed to rest. It was a miracle they’d survived so long, and she was determined to keep things that way.

“You look,” he said, grunting as he tried to move, “pretty.”

“Pretty?” She shook her head. “Trust you to say something nice even when you’re at death’s door.” But she shyly pushed her damp hair from her face anyway, blushing at the unexpected compliment.

“Death’s door?” He chuckled then coughed, shaking his head when she reached for him. “I’m alive and kicking, Cate. I’ll be just fine.”

She seriously doubted it, but she wasn’t about to say that. Instead she wrapped the blanket around him, tucking him in tight and hoping she was doing the right thing in leaving him. He was alive, and that was all that mattered to her.

“Should you come with me?” she asked.

“No.” His breathing was raspy now, wheezing in and out, all pretenses gone. “Patrols could be anywhere.”

“I’ll come back for you, Jack. I didn’t leave you back at the hospital, and I’m not about to leave you now.”

She went to stand then, but Jack caught her hand, stopping her. He pressed the warmest kiss to the inside of her wrist, and she shut her eyes, basking in their brief connection. She would have curled up to him and left the world behind if she could.

“Take the blanket,” he said.

“The blanket? No, I can’t leave you here with nothing! You don’t even have a shirt on!” She sighed.