One evening we were sitting together, Simon and I, watching the moon rise over the water and enjoying the milder weather. Earlier, the band had been playing in the open-air stand close by the strand, and the music had drifted up to us along with the soft whispers of the waves rolling in. There had been old favorites as well as martial tunes, and I had hummed along with some of the selections. Then, reluctantly breaking the mood, I said, “Simon. I had the most vivid dream while I was ill. It had to do with Major Carson. Do you remember him?”

“In fact I saw him in France not three months ago,” he said. “What brought him to mind?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Hesitatingly, I added, “He was dead, his body hidden amongst the influenza victims. I think-it appeared that his neck had been broken.”

In the pale light of the moon I saw his gaze turn toward me. After a moment he said, “Fever does odd things with the mind. And you were very ill.”

“Yes, I know. Still, I dreamed I needed to tell Matron about finding him, but she was sleeping, and I couldn’t remember where. And I could hear the burial detail coming for him, and I had to stop it. But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. As if I were paralyzed or strapped down to my cot. It was all rather frightening.”

“I shouldn’t worry about it, my dear,” he said gently. “The dream will fade as you heal.”

“I’m glad,” I told him, smiling, grateful for the lovely evening and the peace of England. Not everyone was as fortunate as I had been. Leaning my head back against the pillows, I watched the moon ride through a cloudless night sky before drifting into a dreamless sleep.