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The church is deserted today. Tina sits in her usual pew and arranges her features into something resembling piety. And waits.

Eleven o’clock comes and goes, then eleven fifteen. The deacon appears again, today with the parish priest. They both look at her from the front of the church. They don’t seem friendly or welcoming, and Tina’s mouth goes dry. The locals have certainly noticed her by now. She’s not from here after all, and anything out of the ordinary is bound to raise suspicion. Tina steels herself to tell her story. But the priest and the deacon disappear again into the vestry.

At eleven thirty, the door opens. The woman from the previous two days enters, the one with the shopping basket. But today she’s not alone. A young man accompanies her, perhaps thirty, wearing work clothes, carrying a cloth bag.

They sit next to Tina in her pew. There’s no pretense now. They’re not keeping their distance. Maybe it’s because the church is totally empty.

“Madame,” the woman says, her voice low, “I’m so sorry we’re late. Marguerite asked us to fetch you. She’s feeling much better today and would like you to come for lunch.”

Tina’s relief is so intense she almost sags. The cover story. They’re using the cover story. “Oh, wonderful. I’ve been praying for her.”

“She’s on the mend, thank God. Come, we’ll walk you there.” The woman takes Tina’s arm, helps her stand. The young man picks up the cloth bag, heavier than it looks, Tina notices. Something substantial inside.

They leave together, the woman chattering about Marguerite’s recovery, the young man silent and watchful. No one looks at them for long as they pass the café. Just family, collecting an elderly visitor.

They walk for ten minutes or so away from the square to a silent street, where the woman’s demeanor changes. The chatter stops. Her grip on Tina’s arm loosens.

“We were being watched,” she says quietly. “Gestapo at the station, and Militia informants in the café across from the church. The sacristan and priest were in the church so that’s why we waited. We had to be certain it was safe to approach you, that you weren’t bait.”

“I understand. Three days was dangerous. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. These are the protocols, and it’s better to be careful than caught.” She glances at the young man. “This is my son. He helped to collect what you need.”

The son speaks for the first time. “These were dropped from London a week ago. I wasn’t spotted picking them up, but I’m very happy to get rid of them. I wouldn’t want to get caught with this stuff, and I hope you don’t either.”

“Thank you. I don’t plan on getting caught, but I want to get them back to Paris and pass them on as soon as I can.”

They turn into an alley, stop beside a doorway. The son looks up and down the street before opening the cloth bag, from which he begins removing small boxes.

“Put them in your bag,” the woman instructs. “Wrap them in your shawl, and if anyone searches you, say it’s your late husband’s camera. Sentimental value, but you’re taking it to sell in Paris: Times are hard, and you need the money. And you found the rolls of film with it, so you’re selling them too.”

Tina transfers the items carefully, her hands trembling slightly. The weight is significant. A heavy camera and several rolls of film. For evidence of German positions yet to be photographed. Intelligence yet to be gathered.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is invaluable.”

“Use them well. Many people risked much to get these.” The woman pauses. “Don’t come back to Rambouillet again. If we need to make another delivery, we’ll find a different location. Three days was two too many.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

The son looks past her, down the alley. “You should go. The train leaves in twenty minutes. Don’t miss it. The one later on is always more heavily patrolled.”

They walk her back to the main street, point her toward the station, then disappear back into the town. Tina doesn’t look back. Just walks, steady and slow, an ordinary woman who’s had a nice lunch with her cousin, and now she’s heading home.

At the station, there’s no sign of the man in the gray coat. Relief, but also worry—where is he? Watching from somewhere else? Following someone else?

On the train, Tina finds a seat, places her bag beside her, keeps her hand on it. The weight of the camera and film is both reassuring and terrifying. If she’s stopped, if they search her bag, she’ll be arrested, tortured, and probably executed.

But no one stops her. No one searches. The train pulls away from Rambouillet, carrying her back toward Paris, toward home, toward the people waiting for these cameras to document the occupation, to gather the intelligence that might help end this war. She just has this last journey to travel.

Closing her eyes, Tina dreams of the train journey she and Louis took on their honeymoon. Paris to Brittany. The walks along the craggy granite coastline with its countless coves, rugged rock formations, and beautiful beaches. They explored the quiet villages and unspoiled countryside and made memories to last their lifetimes. Once again, she is young and hopelessly in love with the dashing young man walking beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his head resting gently against hers.

She is jolted back to the present. She hadn’t registered that the train has stopped at a small station. The yelling of uniformed Gestapo and Militia officers who have boarded her carriage obliterates her dream entirely. Identification papers are being demanded, and passengers fumble, flustered, trying to locate their documents. An elderly gentleman is struck around the head for taking too long.

Instinctively, Tina drops the bag beside her to the floor and kicks it under the seat in front.

A Militia man stops beside her. “Papers. Hurry up.”

Tina quickly opens her handbag. The papers are on top. As she hands them over, she sees his eyes drop to the bag not fully hidden beneath the seat. She continues to hold the documents out toward him while fear grips her. Her hands shake.