“Well.”
“Well?” The General c****d his head.
I poured the vodka down my throat. “Well enough.” The vodka burned pleasantly. “This is good.”
The General raised the bottle. “Have another.” I pushed the glass toward him and he filled it. “You're anxious to hear?”
“Yes.”
“She is well. Worked off her feet. Sometimes standing twelve hours at a time until she can't see straight and her hands are so numb they can't hold the instruments she needs. Once or twice, she passed out in the operating theatre from sheer fatigue. I think she is working harder than we are.”
I felt pained, imagining Olga like that. Seeing her pale face faded, deep circles under her eyes, the dark hair lank against her scalp. “Isn't there any leave?”
The General shook his head curtly.
“Not yet. There's too much to do.
