Fire in the Hills by Donna Jo Napoli

weeks.
    He’d be given another job in the morning. A job involving all those rifles.
    That was crazy. Lupo had no experience at this partigiano thing. He was lousy at it. He needed Volpe Rossa. Without her, he was a bumbler. No good to anyone.
    If she didn’t show up, he’d get back on the road to Venice. Head home. He had never stopped wanting to do that the whole time he was at Rina’s—he had just planned to wait till the Germans were gone first. But at the rate this war was going, they might never be gone.
    He rolled onto one side. Then onto the other side. Then onto his back again.
    Samuele had died. Maurizio had died. Ivano had died. Anytime Lupo loved someone, they died. He’d be better off never caring about anyone. And if Volpe Rossa was still alive, she was better off without him.
    It was true. He couldn’t save anyone. So there was no point trying. And there was no reason he should feel so ashamed of his thoughts right now.
    He stared unblinking until his eyes burned. He needed to sleep. He was too tired to think straight.
    The barn back at Rina’s farm had been a good place to sleep. This barn would be good, too, if he only let it. He opened his senses to the barn.
    Horses weren’t as noisy as oxen, but they swished their tails and stamped. And one of these four horses had the habit of throwing back its head and snorting.
    The barn door creaked loudly. Lupo lay dead still.
    â€œLupo?” came Volpe Rossa’s whisper.
    He ran to her and they clung together in the dark. She was here. Breathing warm and strong. Lupo went weak with relief. “How did you get away?”
    â€œHe let me off in the next town. But I had to wait till I was sure he was long gone. Then I pedaled back.”
    â€œLet’s go up to the farmhouse. You must be hungry.”
    â€œHe fed me.” She pulled away. Then she walked past him and lay down on the straw.
    Lupo lay beside her. “Did he . . . Are you all right?”
    â€œI’m always all right.”
    â€œNo one’s always all right.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry.”
    Volpe Rossa sat up. “Don’t talk stupid. You did your job. And we’re both still alive.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re alive. I was so afraid.”
    â€œDon’t waste your energies worrying about me. Ever.” She lay back down.
    â€œWhat happened to the basket with the dynamite?”
    â€œI found a good person in town. I gave it to her. Riding back with it would have been too risky. He might have passed me again.” Her voice broke. She rolled onto her side, so her back was to Lupo. “So I didn’t do my job. But you did yours. And these are good people. Sleep now.” Her voice sounded defeated.
    Lupo wanted to touch her shoulder, to comfort her. But he didn’t dare.
    After a while, he sang in a hush. Volpe Rossa joined him.
    When they finished, they lay there in silence.
    â€œLupo,” whispered Volpe Rossa after a long while, “I’m glad you’re alive, too.”
    Â 
    In the morning, the pregnant woman climbed onto the wagon bench with Volpe Rossa by her side. She never told them her name. Lupo sat in the wagon with two bicycles. If they were stopped, the story was that they were delivering the wagon to a farmer outside the next town—whatever the next town might be at that point—and the bicycles were so that the woman and girl could return home, while the boy stayed to help the farmer.
    They left the woman’s two brothers behind, only twelve and fourteen years old. They would take care of the farm chores in her absence. They’d even return the milk cart Lupo had brought. Nobody fretted over leaving everything in the hands of mere boys; it was clear this had happened before.
    All day long German jeeps and cars passed in greater numbers the farther north they went. The cars slowed down, but when the Germans saw that big