Page 92 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“Some. Gangrene, trench foot, sepsis.” She gestured toward a soldier still in his uniform, passed out and covered with a kind of grime that said he hadn’t washed in days or even weeks. “Mostly, it’s their uniforms.”

The smell was so vile it had texture, carrying the scent of death, of rot, of unspeakable things. I wanted to weep, to cover my face, to run away, but if these poor souls could endure what they’d faced, I could stand up straight and meet their eyes as I passed. Some were bandaged, some had lost limbs. Some—I lifted my chin and met their eyes—had faces burned and twisted, uncovered to heal.

At last I saw Tanveer. His body was covered with a blanket, his arms in clean pajamas, but his turban was grimy and stiff with mud. He was the cleanest person I had ever known, and I could not imagine his despair at the layers of dirt and mud and God knew what else layered into it. “Has he not been bathed?”

“His injuries were stabilized in the field hospital.” The matron gave me a small smile. “His men would not allow the turban to be removed. And he does not want to be parted from the cat.”

“Cat?”

She pointed. Tucked into the blanket at his right side, cradled against his body, was a small yellow cat. This time, I could not help the tears. “Of course he has a cat. Why wouldn’t he?”

“It is most unusual, but two men came along with him to make sure the beast wouldn’t be taken away.” Her eyes were bright blue behind spectacles. “They said he’d saved nine men, but he wouldn’t be evacuated because he wouldn’t leave her in the trenches.”

I blinked my still-welling tears away. “I’ll take care of it.” I approached and stroked the cat’s head. It meowed softly at me, green eyes tilted up happily. To the matron, I said, “What injuries did he suffer?”

Her face was grave. “Abdominal wound, which was treated in the field to stabilize it, and a badly broken arm.”

I heard the reserve in her voice. “And?”

“An earlier infection in his leg that was not well treated and has festered.”

I swallowed. “Will he live?”

“He requires more surgery, but he seems strong. It will be helpful to have a friend.” She squeezed my arm. “Time will tell.”

Time will tell.I stood quietly next to his prone, too-still form. His face had grown thin, his cheekbones too prominent. Bruises darkened his jaw and eye. His hands showed scrapes and cuts and marks of all kinds, the oval nails too long.

And yet, he was alive.

I took his hand. “I’m here, Tanveer. You are safe.”

“Do not take him,” Tanveer growled, an arm covering the little cat. He did not open his eyes.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of it.”

He made a noise and turned his head away.

“I will take care of him myself.”

Nothing. I stood and touched his cheek with the back of my fingers, and found it burning. “Tanveer. You must let me take the cat so you might be treated. Do you hear me?”

His head swiveled at my touch, and his eyes opened. They were red and bleary, full of delirium. In Hindustani he said, “I know it isn’t really you.”

I leaned in, pulled his free hand to my face. “It is me.”

He stared. His fingers moved a little, as if testing the reality. “How?”

“Your sister sent me a telegram. I came right away.”

“I can’t ... you shouldn’t be—”

“Shh.” I held his hand on my cheek. “I will take your cat and give her some food. What’s her name?”

“Him. Topaz.”

“All right.”

“Promise you won’t get rid of him.”