Kellary splashes through a stale pool of rainwater and the smell of dead worms assaults her nostrils, assaults them like a feisty German squad trying hard to take a bluff–they’re at a disadvantage but they’ve got more moving bodies, since three of the Lieutenant’s men took bullets and he doesn’t know if they’re dead, but what matters now is pushing back, pushing like the red-faced kids on a swingset: apple-cold air and the sudden perfection of autumn, when they can breeze through hours and come home to warm socks, clean rugs and the paper lampshades that all too easily burn.