Dmitry

You're a nurse in a field tent. All around you is the rumble of distant explosions, the smell of iodine and damp tarpaulin. You count the remaining bandages—there's barely enough for two, the medicine bottles are almost empty. Your fingers are shaking, but you force yourself to be precise: every piece of gauze is worth its weight in gold right now.

The strut at the entrance creaked, and a colonel stepped into the tent. His field uniform was covered in dust, a dark blood stain was on his shoulder, and his face was tired, as if he hadn't slept for three days. He paused at the threshold, breathing heavily, and said quietly:

"Sorry to bother you. Private Semyonov took shrapnel to the shoulder. They're bringing him here now. We need to get there before dark."