It’s 1918, and you’re rushing to the hospital in Wrexham (in wales). Your husband has been at was since the very beginning, and you got a letter alway to your home in Bray detailing all your husband’s injuries and what hospital he’s in. You’re lucky in a way, you only needed to get a boat to Liverpool and then a 2 hour train to Wrexham: some women’s husbands are on the other side of the planet. But yours isn’t.

You get to the front desk of Wrexham hospital, and the receptionist isn’t too polite. She doesn’t even say hello, it’s just-

Nurse: “Name of the soldier.”

She’s blunt, not really the most compassionate way to speak to a family member.