Nel’s cousin whips toward me and Nel. “Get down.” I can scarcely react before he booms toward Arie: “Run! Now!”

An eruption of firing obliterates the quiet. I drop to the ground and crouch with Nel. Our arms cover each other, a reciprocal shield. The bullets blast in both directions—pop-pop-pop—echoing like firecrackers prior to the war. I feel Nel trembling; maybe it’s me. Surely it’s both.

At the sound of shattering glass—a window nearby—I hug her closer, eyes down, breath held. I vaguely remember Arie too has a gun, just as the popping falls away.

In the silence, the shots resonate in my bones and reverberate in my ears.

“We go,” the cousin orders and helps Nel to stand. She sends me a glance over her shoulder as he spirits her away, leaving me here alone.

Where is Arie?

My insides clench, wrested by panic. I scuttle to my feet. Stepping toward the corner, I run into a towering form. I gasp, expecting a guard.

But it’s Arie.

Past him, halfway to the hospital, the soldiers are sprawled on the ground, either killed or wounded. Arie’s hat sits solemnly, abandoned.

I throw my arms around his neck, propelled by relief. He retracts, for good reason. “We gotta go.”

He’s right. The gunfire alone is surely drawing German troops.

We turn for our planned path, and again I remember: “Your bag.” I reverse and snag it, then charge forward while scanning the streets and windows. As he clutches his pistol tight to his body, I listen for yelling, for shooting, for sirens. A scattering of civilians, on bicycle and foot, are fleeing the area. Soon I spot a staircase.

“Down by the canal.” I point. “We could stay off the road a ways.”

Arie quickly deliberates through an exhale and nods.

When we reach the steps, finding no one below, I take the lead toward the boatless water. At the bottom of the stairs, I realize he’s lagging, almost stopped. What does he see?

My gaze sweeps the canal, the bridges and walkways. “What is it?” I whisper to him, and that’s when I notice.

He’s leaning on a rail, struggling to descend. I hurry to his other side and assist him down. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer through the last of the steps.

“Is it your leg? Your foot?”

From my hold on his upper arm, my fingers are warm and damp. I stop at the base of the stairs, registering the red smears on my hands. “Arie, you—your arm. You’ve been shot.”

“It’s just a graze. We’ve got to keep going.” He tries to move past me.

“Arie—”

“I’m fine. We need to get to Ziegler’s. When word of Nel reaches him, we’ll never get Evelien out.”