The medic who stitched James's side had cold hands and no interest in who he was.
"Seven stitches," she said, tying off the last one. "Don't lift anything heavy for a day."
"I lift a sword."
"Then lift it gently."
He came out into the afternoon with his shirt half buttoned over the dressing. The junction was quieter than he had heard it since he came north. The gunfire was far off now, up past the town where the British were regrouping. Somebody had got a kettle going on a gas ring behind the sandbags, and there was a queue for it.
Finn was outside the medical station on an upturned crate. Eamon stood beside him in a grey jumper and jeans, his Challenger jacket open over the top and the rest of his kit in a heap at his feet. He was standing straighter than yesterday, but he still moved as if the floor might give way.
"There he is," said Eamon. "The man himself. Back from the front, while I've been sat in a tent with a nurse taking my pulse every twenty minutes."
