The next morning, when she awoke, the solider was gone. On the stool next to his cot, though, Marinette found not one, but three tiny, crumpled pieces of paper, folded haphazardly into quarters. On each, she found an image of herself. On two she was tending to patients—wrapping bandages and examining cuts she remembered from weeks prior. On the third was a series of tiny portraits from all angles. The pictures seemed to be a study of expression—focused, passionate, caring, worried, even tired—but each and every one contained her signature nurse's smile, warm and comforting. There was a pleasantness to the images, as though the girl in the drawings took great pride in her work. Marinette wondered if this was really how she appeared, or if perhaps the artist had taken some liberties with her demeanor. Still, she was touched by the gesture. She carefully refolded each one and tucked them into the pockets of her apron, resolving to re-home them with the rest of her belongings when the workday ended.

The tent was almost empty now; only twenty or so patients remained. Of these, a majority would likely be released before the week was out—their injuries not fatal, but located inconveniently enough to make continued training more difficult. Another set, situated in the 'quarantine wing' on the far side of the tent, stayed behind due to illness. Caused by infection, or simple pathogens, this bunch was a familiar sight to the hospital. They were omnipresent—with or without a battle to predate their condition—and their coughs and moans never ceased to echo across the facilities.

The last group, though, was the one to which Marinette was currently assigned. These were the bittersweet cases. These were the honorable discharges, the permanently maimed, and the new veterans. These soldiers were the difference between a grazed forearm, and a phantom limb; the difference between open sores, and gangrene; the difference between a week of recovery, and a lifetime of disfigurement. These soldiers were going home, and not by choice.

"You can't do this to me!" one yelled, pushing away two nurses who were attempting to help him into a wheelchair. He tried to run, but made it less than two steps before he collapsed, catching himself on the cot next to his before he hit the ground. He froze in place—his muscles tense—a mix of fear and anger clouding his mind.

Within a second, Marinette was there to help him up. She guided him to a sitting position and knelt beside him. The other nurses took this as their cue to leave, and found new tasks. There were other patients who required their services, and they both knew Marinette was perfectly capable of handling matters on her own.

Marinette examined the solider. He had dark hair, and a tall, stocky physique that made him look older than he likely was. Really, it was only his sad, grey eyes that gave away his age. He'd likely been here less than a year, she concluded, if even that. In her professional opinion, he looked healthy, if not troubled… but she knew he was not being discharged without a reason.

"Are you excited to see your family?" she queried, skirting the issue.

"What's the point?" the solider asked, "The war isn't over. I told them I wasn't coming home until it was over."

"You did your part. You served your country," she consoled, "I'm sure they'll be proud."

"No, I didn't." He was shaking. The spasms ran up and down his arms, from his drooping shoulders to his clenched fists. "I barely made it ten minutes into my first battle before they got me. I took ten steps before I fell." He rolled up his left pants leg, revealing an ugly maroon scar—still wet in some places, and scabbed over in others—fit to rival any she'd seen. Judging by the size, depth, and the existence of what appeared to be powder burns, Marinette inferred that the wound itself must have been caused by a bullet, though she couldn't be sure as to what type or size. The round had likely pierced his kneecap, shattering the patella, before doing an indeterminate amount of damage to the ligaments behind it. Even if it healed cleanly—and she suspected, in time, that it would—he would never walk on it again. If he was lucky, and had the money to pay a good doctor, he might come out of it with just a limp, but that was purely up to chance and circumstance.

"I was on the front line," he continued, "I got trampled. Everyone must have assumed I'd died. They didn't even look down as the walked over me." He paused, indicating his mangled lower leg—twisted far beyond what any field doctor could properly set. "I don't blame them, though. I would have thought I'd died too."

Marinette stood up and sat beside him, wrapping her arm around him in a casual gesture of support.

"I… I wish I had died."

"No you don't."
"Y-yes I do," he insisted. "I bragged so much about joining up. I was an athlete back home, and everyone knew it. I told all my friends I was going to sock old Adolph myself. Right in the jaw. There was a girl… she told me I wouldn't make it a year. I bet her 300 Francs—a full month's salary—I could make it twice that long. I told her that when we won the war, I'd buy her a ring, and she'd have to accept it… but I didn't even make it four months. Even if I spent every penny I earned, it wouldn't suit her. What would she want with a cripple like me, anyways?"

"Don't say that!" Marinette interrupted, "I'm sure she's back home waiting for you right now!"

At this, he smiled. It was the first time she'd seen him smile that day, and she took it as a good sign.

"You don't know Alix," he chuckled, "There's no way she's waiting for anyone. I don't know what she's doing, or where she is, but I'm sure that's not it. She's got too much spirit."

At that moment, Alya slipped through the tent flaps.

"The transport vehicle is leaving soon. Any soldiers returning to Vincennes today need to be on it, or get left behind."

Marinette stood up. "Are you ready?" she asked. There wouldn't be another departure of this sort for at least a week, but she did her best to indicate that if he wasn't, he genuinely could stay behind.

"Y-yeah…" he said, taking her hand, and letting her help him into the wheelchair. She pushed him out of the tent and across the way to where the truck stood waiting. Just before he was lifted into it by two other soldiers, he turned to her.

"You know…" he said, "You were wrong about Alix… She's not going to be at home, waiting for me…." He paused, considering his words. "But maybe this way, I can be there… waiting for her."

The canvas flaps of the truck swung shut behind him, and Marinette stood, almost at attention, until they had driven out of sight. As she wheeled the chair back into storage, she thought about this girl—Alix—who, like Marinette, didn't have it in her to sit by when there was work to be done.

Night brought with it a string of drop-ins clamoring for fresh bandages and antiseptics. To her delight, Private Agreste was among these. She wasn't exactly surprised. He was inexperienced and acquiescent. If Alya had caught him before his departure and instructed him to return each night, he no doubt would have followed her orders to the letter, and Marinette was sure this had been the case.

Adrien tapped his foot impatiently as he waited in line behind the other men. There were three nurses assisting with wound dressing, so he was anxiously calculating his chances of receiving Marinette's attention. He'd even rehearsed his excuse—"Excuse me, Miss, but that nurse over there is the one who treated me before, and I'd prefer it if—" but thankfully for him, that wasn't necessary. When, at last, he reached the front of the line, and found Alya without a patron, she quickly excused herself to fetch something from the back room. Sabrina, likewise, took the hint and slowed her hand until Marinette had finished setting her patient's splint.

"Next!" Marinette called, utterly oblivious to the underhanded dealings of her coworkers.

Adrien approached sheepishly, and sat in the stool across from her station. Marinette immediately got to work. At this point, the buckshot wound was completely closed, with only a thick scab to indicate it's history. She decided to give it one more day, and rebadged it, post cleaning. Tomorrow she would to let it breathe.

He watched in silence as she worked, struggling to find a way to bring up his news. Returning patients rarely needed the extra layer of distraction that new wounds required, so Marinette had been working quietly all night. She had seen no reason to change her behavior now.

After the utter discomfort of the iodine, Adrien took the application of the sulfanilamide powder as his opening. Breaking the silence, he spoke:

"They cleaned out his tent."

"Who—" Marinette had barely posed the question before the answer came to her.

"Nathanaël," he echoed her thoughts, "When I got back to our tent, they'd already picked apart his belongings. The other soldiers did, I mean. I'm so sorry. I wanted you to have them, but everything's been stolen…."

Marinette felt for the papers in her apron pocket, wondering briefly if she had imagined them.

No. They were real. But then, if Adrien hadn't been the one to deliver them to her… who had? Private Nino? Alya? Another solider? She decided not to mention the drawings until she had figured out the answer.

"That's too bad. I would have loved to see them…" she commented, "Don't worry about it, though. It's alright."

"Are you sure?" he questioned, clearly disappointed in both the situation, and his inability to resolve it.

"Absolutely," Marinette assured. "I'm sure some of them will turn up eventually."

"Y-yeah…" he agreed, as she applied the last coat of tannic acid. He buttoned up his uniform and left without a closing word, still lost in the melancholia of the day's events. It's not that he had wanted the nurse to be upset by the news, but perhaps he had wanted to feel his dismay reflected in another person.

"Next!" She called out, and within seconds she was greeted with a new patient, a new challenge, and a new distraction from the new mystery she'd just unearthed.