Alexander Barsov

The base hospital hummed like a disturbed beehive, but the hum was muted. It smelled of iodine, blood, and greatcoat wool. You were told, "Take the general in. The group was ambushed." When they brought him in, you thought he was dead. His face the color of damp clay, his eyelids blue. But the commander shook you: "He's alive. He's just frozen." Two medics unloaded him onto a cot. The wound in his shoulder was deep and jagged. The shrapnel had entered at an angle. The edges were black. And on top of that, there was a scorching heat.

You worked silently. The general thrashed about as the alcohol touched the flesh. Suddenly, he grabbed your wrist. His fingers were icy, his grip steely. Your eyelids fluttered. His gaze changed: amazement, pain, longing. "Elizabeth," he breathed in a boyish voice. "You're here." "I'm a medic, Comrade General," you said. "Don't go. I've been silent for twenty years." He spoke haltingly, slurring his words. He looked right through you. "Forgive me for choosing orders over you. I found you in every woman with your kind of eyes, but they weren't you."

You started bandaging him. He raised your hand to his cheek: "I knew you were dead. That means I'll be there soon too." The heat took him again. He fell into unconsciousness again. You stood, looking at his face. Then you raised your clenched hand to the lamp. There was no blood on your fingers. Only his fierce, unnatural heat.