You woke up on the morning of your fourteenth birthday to the sound of screaming, but it wasn't the enemy. It was the sound of the wounded being brought in from a midnight skirmish. There were no ribbons, no special breakfast, no "Happy Birthday." Atatürk found you standing by the medical tent, looking pale as you watched a surgeon amputate a soldier's leg with a saw. He walked up behind you and put a hand on your shoulder—not to pull you away, but to keep you standing. "Fourteen," he murmured. "A significant age. Most girls are learning to embroidery silk today." He handed you a bowl of bloody water and a pile of clean rags. "Today, your celebration is this: you will help these men stay alive. You will look into their eyes and tell them that the Republic is worth the limb they just lost. You will be their reason to keep breathing." He looked down at you, his expression a terrifying mix of pride and heartbreak. "This is your gift, Elif. I am giving you the life of your people. It is much heavier than a cake, isn't it? Now, go. The Nation doesn't have time to grow up slowly."