The days underground dragged by in a blur of pain, dressing changes, and IV bags. Outside, artillery shook the concrete overhead around the clock. The enemy was grinding the nearby town down piece by piece, and each day the danger crept closer.
Mike gritted his teeth and forced himself through painful exercises right there on the cot. He worked his damaged legs, fighting through pain and spells of dizziness. Every tiny movement cost him.
The thought of Annie kept him going. He remembered her laugh, the feel of her little hands, and the promise he had made to be home for her birthday. For that child, he was ready to drag himself back from death if he had to.
On the fifth day, Mike managed to swing his legs over the side of the cot and put his feet on the cold concrete floor. Dr. Cole shook his head in disbelief. Medicine had its limits, but willpower sometimes surprised everybody.
“You’re out of your mind, Shaw,” the surgeon warned. “Those stitches could open right up.” But Mike only gripped the bedframe harder and took one shaky step.
At that moment, a communications specialist from a nearby unit hurried into the bunker carrying printed replies to the emails volunteers had sent for wounded soldiers. Nurse Mary found Mike’s name and handed him the crumpled sheet with a hopeful smile.
Mike stared at the text, expecting something from Ellen. Instead, the reply was cold, clipped, and written by someone else entirely. His heart dropped as he understood what he was reading.
“Do not write to this address again. We are in the process of transferring the apartment and placing the difficult child in state care,” it read. At the bottom was a smug signature: Boris. He also requested an official death certificate as soon as possible.
Rage hit Mike so hard it burned away every other sensation. He crushed the paper in his fist and took a step toward the exit. His face hardened. In that instant he understood something clearly: the worst enemy he had wasn’t on the battlefield. He was in Mike’s own home.
