Owing to her Irish superstitions, she probably wonders if I’ve fallen victim to a curse. It doesn’t help that I’m directly beneath her room, treating her to outbursts from my resurrected nightmares, this time with the fresh nuances of German bombs raining down as I’m trapped in a Tube stairwell, still of course in a pile of bodies.

Blackout curtains scramble my days and nights as I fend off visions, old and new, of limp figures and empty eyes. By lamplight, I spend my waking hours skimming a book or half listening to programs on the wireless: Music While You Work, The Radio Doctor, The Glums.

News broadcasts have captured more of my interest as I seek to evade shame over relinquishing my duties at MI9. The tide of the war is turning, they’ve said. While bombing raids pummel Germany, Hitler’s loss of Stalingrad has delivered him a mighty blow on the eastern front. Even our forces in North Africa, by tightening their hold on Tunisia, are nearing the end of a stalemate with the Axis on the run.

And all without a scrap of my help.

Fine, yes, there’s the rest of Europe to consider. But how much difference have I truly made? I’m a cog in a massive machine, sure to be replaced the minute I set sail, if not sooner.

To that end, I’m listening now for the latest updates while curled up in bed. Presented by “Lord Haw-Haw,” the Nazi propaganda reports naturally exaggerate Allied defeats yet still help gauge the state of the seas. In an escalating Battle of the Atlantic, Allied merchant ships are being sunk by the dozens, he boasts.

I cringe over the perishing of more lives and selfishly over fears that prevent me from scheduling my departure. As if the prospect of sleeping in the belly of a ship wasn’t daunting enough, it now verges on debilitating.

By coming to England, I was proudly embodying my father’s bravery, my mother’s adventurous spirit. How disappointed they must be, looking down on me here, stuck between worlds, imprisoned by my thoughts—including just what led me to that East End tragedy.

After the bombing of Berlin, German retaliation was logical. With dock areas being a common target, I should have seen it coming. The air raid at least. In that way, I’d become too comfortable, a recurring weakness.

A gentle knock sounds on the door.

My twin-bell alarm clock informs me it’s twenty past eight. Monday’s breakfast delivery, a smidge early.

I answer from my pillow: “Not hungry, but thank you.”

Another knock follows, galling me, rightfully or not. I’m about to assert a reply when the caller announces, “Miss Vos, it’s me. Private Walsh.”

Internally I sink.