Even with Marion’s limited vision, it looked to her like all the men were armed with rifles. She had yet to be able to figure out what distinguished one type of rifle from another. To her, they all produced the same result.

As the rumble of the convoy receded, Marion stood up and started back toward the street, intent on making up for lost time.

“Qui étes-vous? Que voulez-vous?”

Marion froze. The voice had come from behind her. It was male, deep and urgent.

“Répondez-moi. Que faites-vous ici?”

She raised her hands. “Please,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.” Though French was her native tongue, she answered in English. In the unlit alley, her olive-colored skin might look darker than it really was, so she wanted to emphasize the fact that she was a foreigner.

She heard the man take a step closer to her. “Are you American?” he asked, his English slow and deliberate.

“Canadian,” she said.

“Turn. Slow.”

She did what he asked.

When she saw him, she realized he was older than she’d thought. His hair was gray, his body thin and stooped. He held a pistol, and was pointing it at her, though the tremor in his hands moved the barrel a half an inch in either direction every few seconds.

He wasn’t alone, either. Behind him, peeking around his hip, was a young girl. She looked more curious than scared.

“Why do you hide behind my shop?” The man seemed to think hard before saying each word, as if he was reaching back to knowledge he hadn’t used in decades.

“The soldiers,” she said. “I didn’t want them to find me out after curfew.”

“Not safe. You should not be out here.”

The little girl smiled at Marion. It was doubtful she could understand a word that was being said.