The use of Zhanna's ear did not return after a night's rest. Doc Roe had examined her, with the promise of no hospital stay, and told her that time would only tell. If her hearing did return, it would not be for a few weeks. Some might have considered this a tragedy but Zhanna saw it as a new opportunity. Sitting with Muck and Malarkey on her left, she could successfully enjoy peace and quiet in their company. If this was a permanent solution she might have been happy, deep down.

Buck's concern hadn't worn off.

"You could have been seriously wounded," Buck had scolded.

While his concern was heartwarming, Zhanna couldn't help but brush it aside. It could have happened to anyone and Zhanna was lucky. She had only a minor injury. There were men whose lives had ended or been torn apart by the same battle. The river of life didn't mark that battle as Zhanna's ending. It couldn't, not when she had still had so much left to do.

The men of Easy were starting to relax around her now. She was still a stranger but perhaps they had thawed towards her, becoming more open to a Russian's presence. They joked about how far she had flown when the shell exploded, saying that she had sprouted wings.

Sveta's concern was deeper than Buck's. She had warned Zhanna to be careful. While they both knew that they could take care of themselves, there was still concern. Zhanna worried when Sveta was out of her sight, praying to the sunny sky that she was safe. She could only assume that Sveta did likewise. They were close, bound together by chains and shared experience. While they both knew how to take care of themselves, they both had to get home to Russia. Sveta, for her father and her family's name. Zhanna for her parents and to make that final payment.

Zhanna, despite Buck's worry and Muck's joking that she was going to get himself killed this time, volunteered for a patrol. They had been in Normandy for weeks and no one seemed to know when they were leaving. Zhanna hadn't had a shower in days, a proper meal in longer, and she hadn't had a full night's rest without bugs crawling over her. While this wasn't much different from her brief time in the field, it was uncomfortable nevertheless. She endeavored to remain busy, to pass the time spent in this part of France as quickly as possible. Her hearing still faded on the left side, though the bleeding had stopped, and her body was sore and bruised from her shattered fall onto the ground.

Her knees were sore, as she knelt on the ground in that copse of trees, watching the white building rise out of the patch of green. If she was sent to scope out the land, she would settle herself in that building that boasted a vantage point of the surrounding area. Zhanna knew they were being watched. Zhanna knew that a sniper or a rifleman was in one of those windows, but she couldn't pick it out.

Welsh never asked for volunteers. He knew that silence would rest heavily over the men until he would, at long last, have to pick out the unlucky few who would approach the house and, knowingly become bullet fodder. It was a tough hand to be dealt and Zhanna knew that no one would volunteer. So she did.

Zhanna usually did. Anything to pass the time spent in France. Nothing to distract from the heavy weight of her family and how her feet were on the same continent as her homeland. Poland, somewhere over the horizon. But Zhanna couldn't think about home, or her family. Not when there was still so much to be done. Not when there was a house to clear and her mind was still gummy from the shell blast.

Her unwilling companions were Blithe, Martin, and Dukeman. Johnny Martin's face was characteristically glum while Dukeman had a foul look etched deep into his features. Blithe's face was blank, completely unreadable.

Blithe had found courage somewhere in the foxholes of Carentan. He was now steady and had a grimmer sense of resolve about him. As if he accepted his fate, be that death or life. Zhanna supposed that there were some orders that life gave you that simply couldn't be attested. She supposed that if life had your death written out, there was only so long you could avoid it. Survival was a language she spoke and a life she led but it wasn't attainable. Zhanna could only cheat life's plan for so long.

As they crept forward, Zhanna's limbs seemed to move slower than the rest. Part of the struggle was keeping her rifle pinned to her shoulder and steady as she walked. But she had been moving slower, like walking through water, since her brush with the explosion. Her hearing hadn't been the only thing that had suffered. It seemed Zhanna was sluggish now, half-awake, half-asleep.

Her body didn't move fast enough to react when Blithe, who had been walking confidently beside her, fell to the ground. She caught the echo of the shot in her good ear, watching him lay in the delicate ferns, writhing as blood gushed across her American boots. American blood spilling over American boots. Zhanna caught the echo of the shot but missed the second one, amid the shouts and the cries for medics. The second shot was disguised but the sudden pain in her shoulder couldn't be. She cried out, hand clamping to her shoulder. The rifle clattered to the ferns, the last sound Zhana heard before the buzzing started again.

Her small frame was knocked off balance and she too sank into ferns. Blithe's blood was warm and sticky, the scent salty sweet. She looked over, their injuries seemed to blur together. American and Russian- no, she corrected herself, Polish- bled together in that bright forest. Someone was shouting for covering fire. Doc Roe's face came into view but Zhanna looked past him into the patches of blue sky still visible between the trees overhead. Blue sky and the bright yellow sun. Pressing her hand tightly over the wound, as instructed, Zhanna smiled to herself. It seemed Life was reminding her just how delicate her balance was. She could only cheat its plan for so long.