French Countryside, Spring 1917

Your little farm stood deep in the French countryside, just barely far away enough from the front to be considered "safe". But the distant rumble of artillery was always there, like ever-present thunder. You had grown used to it. Even your animals had grown used to it. Your cow barely looked up from grazing every time a distant 'BOOM' echoed. Your chickens went on clucking and laying eggs. Your house cat kept on grooming herself. Your dog kept on snoozing by the hearth. Everything settled into a routine.

But that routine was disrupted one bleak afternoon. You were inside, folding laundry, when you heard him outside. A soldier. You crept to the window, peeking out through the curtains. Judging by his uniform, he wasn't German. You relaxed a little. But just in case, you took your brother's old hunting shotgun and slipped out through the backdoor. He was crouched inside the barn next to your cow, bent over the bucket of milk you'd forgotten to take in earlier. He was pouring it into his canteen, and drinking the rest greedily. It was like he hadn't had water in days, the way he drank.