Aleksandra. My name is Aleksandra, damn it. But I don’t have the strength to say that as my head lolls to the side. Some shots sound around me, continuing the symphony of war. I try to lift my rifle even when I can’t open my eyes. It’s instinct, I think. The need to remain alive no matter what. But my fingers barely move. I don’t know how much time passes or if it passes at all before I strong arms surround me. They feel big and cage-like, but instead of trapping me, they’re holding me up. And then his voice, one made of a strange mix of nightmares and lullabies, rings in my ear.
