When Thomas found the old boat, he believed that the Lord had blessed him and that he was leaving the dead bodies behind.

He was wrong.

The boat was roughhewn and splintery, but it floated true, and that was all that mattered. He had crossed this stretch of water before, but today was different. Today, the war was over. He had known war.

He pushed off, letting the current take him, rowing only when he had to. His arms and back ached, but he persevered because his woman, who had not known war, waited for him. With luck, she’d found a few scrawny chickens to throttle. If the Good Lord had looked kindly upon her, she might have found a pig.

Halfway across the river, he paused. The sky was clear, devoid of smoke and recon balloons. The water was clear, too, devoid of bodies washing downriver.

He took up the oars again and rowed to a marshy river island filled with sedges, duckweed, and pond scum. He tied off the boat, stood and rubbed the back of his neck. The undergrowth was ripe for snakes; he would tread carefully.

As he rolled his last cigarette something caught his eye.

A body.

He sighed and peered at it with half-lidded eyes. It was a youngster, maybe sixteen, small and frail with skinny arms that had gotten bloated since the bullet got him. How the boy got there was less a mystery than who’d shot him on this remote island. Thomas shrugged. The boy had known war. Thomas left the island foggy-headed.

He rowed until he reached the far riverbank, pulled the boat up and surveyed the land beyond. His homeland. The house was still there, log walls gray with years. He had not written ahead because the courier had had his legs amputated.

His boots slopped through the mud on the path to the porch. The door was barred, so he knocked the secret knock only they knew.

When the door creaked open, he saw his woman, was older now, with lines and dirt around her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and did not speak.

“It’s over,” he said.

She shook her head. He knitted his brow.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

He stepped out of her way and let her lead. She took him around back to where a pair of bodies lay in the late shadows. She had used her last two shells on them. Beyond the corpses, she had tried to dig graves, but the ground was rocky and rough.

“Help me,” she said, grabbing one of the dead men by his feet.

Together they covered the men with rocks to make a cairn.

When they finished, Thomas followed her back into the cabin where she handed him a skillet with roasted chicken and pork, half a sweet potato and some field peas. His eyes went wide.

He took out his knife and stabbed a piece of the meat.

“How did you get all this?”

She shrugged. “The same way I handled those men,” she said. “With grit.”

He nodded with a tear in his eye. He had known war. And he was not alone.