Tom woke to a blinding light and welcomed the thought that he was dead. At last.

That would mean that he’d never have to face battle again.

The light retreated and he blinked before seeing a shadowed figure hovering over him.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

The words sounded as if they were said through a tunnel, but Tom could understand them easily enough.

Tom squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them again.

He was alive. It was not a relief.

Though at least he hadn’t lost his hearing.

He could barely make it out but took a guess. “Four.”

“Who is the president?”

“FDR.”

“Sit up for me, son.”

Tom pushed himself up on wobbly arms but immediately wrapped them around his stomach. Dizziness overtook him and he leaned over the side of the bed and vomited right on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. A nurse was immediately at his side, offering him a towel and wetting a mop.

The doctor had a squared jawline and looked as if there was nothing he hadn’t seen.

“I heard you got into a brawl with a grenade. Mighty brave of you. That’s the stuff medals get awarded for.”

Tom started to shake his head, but his brain felt like it was rattling from side to side. He rushed his hands to his temples.

“You’re concussed, son. The grenade was a dud, lucky for you. But you fell onto a rock that was hidden by the snow. Don’t talk—I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, you’ll recover. And, yes, they’re going to ask you to get back on the front lines just as soon as I clear you.”

Tom lay back. He felt like a cat with nine lives that were getting checked off one by one. He didn’t know how many other near misses he might have. And as much as he might want them to be over with here in the hospital, that wasn’t really where his heart was. He couldn’t wish that for his mother and father—or for Margaret.

If Tom died, all three of them would be lost to her. John. William. Tom.

There was a rustle of the canvas curtain and Captain Winters came in.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asked. He immediately regretted that he hadn’t saluted. In his confusion, he’d forgotten protocol.

“I told the regiment I needed to come back to the unit for a bit. And what did I find? Sergeant Powell decided to be Captain America?”

Tom grinned. “Sergeant America to you.”

Winters’s laugh was heartier than Tom had ever heard.