"The low stone wall zigzagged through a field long forgotten by three generations of farmers. It offered protection only if she sat with her back to it, leaned on one elbow, and kept her head below its smooth, weather-worn surface. She heard the shots before she heard him. He came stumbling through the dry, knee-high grass and half jumped, half fell over the wall. The moon gave off enough light to show the shine of fresh blood on his black cotton shirt. He tried to stop the bleeding by pressing his palm over the wound while he ran, but had to use both hands to turn, aim his Russian-made carbine, and fire.

One shot. She heard a grunt, then the unmistakable thud of a body falling on the other side of the wall. She was too petrified to look. Instant quiet; his labored breathing was the only sound. He dropped his rifle, indicating they were safe. She was safe. He pressed his palm over the chest wound and put a finger to his lips. She lay down her own rifle, ripped off her blouse, and placed it under his palm. It was instantly soaked.

She put her hand behind his head, pulled him next to her and whispered, "Don't leave me, damn you. Not now."