He had no idea how long he had been running for. Rain poured down, hitting his helmet and soaking up his uniform, weighing him down. Or maybe it was the blood loss, his leg dragging through the mud, muscles sore and screaming in pain, begging to rest; he couldn’t allow himself to stop.

He didn’t know where he was, the French countryside extending for miles and miles in every direction. It was also too late to go back now, he was too far away from the trenches. He had just betrayed his country and all he had believed in. Dissertation, a shameful crime, a burden he would’ve had to bear for the rest of his life now. It was better than being gone in a pile of nameless flesh and bones.

Simon was exhausted, the rain wetting his lips the sole form of sustenance, and it had to be enough to keep him going. His leg was in excruciating pain, and the mere thought of having to take out the bullet at some point made him lightheaded. It would’ve been a problem for later, he had to focus on running now.

When he saw the outline of a house in the distance, he wondered if it was like in those stories he heard, about men hallucinating lavish oases when lost in the desert. He could only hope it was real. The dark grey sky was starting to eat the light, so he had to keep moving before night struck. It was his only chance.

The closer he got, the more he realised it was real. A large house, a stable, a coop and a barn. If he played his cards right, he could’ve stayed there until he got better. The lights were on inside, so he took the longer route to avoid being seen and sneak into the barn.

As soon as he pushed the heavy door open, he heard a few low moos, and internally cursed, hoping the animals wouldn’t alert anyone. He hid in the farthest corner, using loose hay to make shelter. It was too dark to see his wound correctly, and every movement he made, he groaned, which coaxed the animals to make noises. And when he heard the wooden door being opened again, he wondered if he was going to meet his fate, or his freedom.