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His bloody hand shook when he made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Oh, I’ve died,” he said, staring at her wide-eyed. “You are an angel. I’ve died and gone to—Am I in Heaven?”
    He reached for her, his hand quaking. She wanted to scream or vomit, but al she could do was cover his hands and press them back over the gaping hole in his gut. Another boom rat led the ground and the boy lying on it. Fresh blood seeped through the web of Luce’s fingers.
    “I am Giovanni,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please. Help me. Please.” Only then did Luce realize she wasn’t in Moscow anymore. The ground below her was warmer. Not snow-covered, but a grassy plain that was torn up in places, exposing rich black soil. The air was dry and dusty. This boy had spoken to her in Italian, and just as she had in Moscow, she understood.
    Her eyes had adjusted. She could see searchlights in the distance, roaming over purple-hued hil s. And beyond the hil s, an evening sky was ecked with bright white stars. Luce turned away. She couldn’t see stars without thinking of Daniel, and she couldn’t think about Daniel right now. Not with her hands pressed into this boy’s bel y, not with him about to die.
    At least he hadn’t died yet.
    He only thought he had.
    She couldn’t blame him. After he’d been hit, he’d probably gone into shock. And then maybe he’d seen her come through the Announcer, a black tunnel appearing out of thin air. He must have been terrified.
    “You’re going to be ne,” she said, using the perfect Italian she’d always wanted to learn. It felt astonishingly natural on her tongue. Her voice, too, came out softer and smoother than she expected; it made her wonder what she’d been like in this lifetime.
    A barrage of deafening shots made her jump. Gun re. Endless, in quick succession, bright zipping tracers arcing through the sky, burning lines of white into her vision, fol owed by a lot of shouting in Italian. Then the thump of footsteps in the dirt. Coming closer.
    “We’re retreating,” the boy mumbled. “That’s not good.”
    Luce looked toward the sound of soldiers running in their direction and noticed for the rst time that she and the injured soldier were not alone. At least ten other men lay wounded around them, moaning and trembling and bleeding into the black earth. Their clothes were singed and shredded from the land mine that must have taken them by surprise. The rich stink of rot and sweat and blood sat heavy in the air, coating everything. It was so horrific—Luce had to bite down on her lip to keep from screaming.
    A man in an o cer’s uniform ran past her, then stopped. “What’s she doing here? This is a war zone, not a place for nurses. You’l be no help to us dead, girl. At least make yourself useful. We need the casualties loaded up.” He stormed o before Luce could respond. Below her, the boy’s eyes were beginning to droop and his whole body was shaking. She looked around desperately for help.
    About a half mile away was a narrow dirt road with two ancient-looking trucks and two smal , squat ambulances parked at its side.
    “I’l be right back,” Luce told the boy, pressing his hands more rmly against his stomach to control the bleeding. He whimpered when she pul ed away.
    She ran toward the trucks, stumbling over her feet when another shel came down behind her, making the earth buck.
    A cluster of women in white uniforms stood gathered around the back of one of the trucks. Nurses. They would know what to do, how to help. But when Luce got close enough to see their faces, her heart sank. They were girls. Some of them couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Their uniforms looked like costumes.
    She scanned their faces, looking for herself in one of them. There must have been a reason why she’d stepped into this Hel . But no one looked familiar. It was hard to fathom the girls’ calm, clear expressions. Not one of them showed the terror that Luce knew was