World War II rages in Europe, and Eugene has never been more strained. In the icy forests of Bastogne, soldiers are trapped, surrounded, and supplies—ammo, food, and medicine—are dwindling.

Eugene’s face is pale from the cold, his nose and ears red. His stubble is thick, and his helmet never leaves his head. Hunched in a foxhole, he meticulously organizes the dwindling bandages and morphine, his hands trembling slightly from both the cold and the weight of the task. He rubbed his hand together.