It's snug in there with another cot pushed up against Margaret's but no more snug than it was sharing a cot with Frank Burns. At least she and Helen don't have to sleep on top of each other the way she and Frank did if they wanted to cuddle, fearing the whole time that the canvas would give out underneath them and then everyone would know a secret that had been open since the dawn of time.

Margaret wouldn't admit it to anyone other than Helen, but it gets pretty damn lonely in this tent all by herself. On extremely rare occasions, she almost wished she wasn't a major so she could bunk with the other girls. She wouldn't really know how to. Margaret Houlihan hasn't slept in a bunk room since the last war she was in and that was more for security rather than status.

But she knows how to bunk with Helen.

(There's one thing that she wouldn't admit, not even to Helen, not even to herself. And it's that she invited all those generals into her tent so that she wouldn't have to be in there alone.)

The day before Helen is set to ship out, they get so swamped with casualties that nobody can blame her for missing that chopper to Seoul. Margaret assigns her the easiest, least technical job she can manage while still sparing a damn fine nurse. It isn't just Margaret being a hardass, it's Helen being nervous about her nervous hands in someone's chest.

Margaret tells her to keep the patients calm in pre-op, talking to those who are conscious enough to wait in that sweet southern accent of hers, as syrupy as an egg cream with two straws. By the time she's done with the patients, they get into the OR so calm they almost forget the bits of shrapnel embedded throughout their bodies. And, when they come too after the anesthesia wears off, Helen is there to welcome them back to the world of the living. For those who don't make it, she helps the enlisted men bag and tag personal belongings.

It's grueling work, different from operating, but no less exhausting. By the time the last patient is rolled into post-op, the medical staff universally agree to 2 PM bedtime, having been operating for roughly 18 hours. The more sentient of them head to the showers in futile attempts to wash the metallic perfume of blood and antiseptic from their skin.

Helen and Margaret don't bother with showering. They shamble back to Margaret's tent barely able to keep their eyes open for more than a few moments at a time.

With her boots still on and no intention of taking them off, Margaret collapses onto her cot. Or maybe Helen's. They're pressed so close together that distinctions matter very little.

Helen flops down next to her, half on top of her, on a bed that may be Margaret's but is better defined as something shared.

They don't bother with blankets, with pillows. Margaret is asleep almost from the second her body goes slack. The last thing she remembers is the press of Helen's mouth against her own, as quick and gentle as fluttering eyelashes. It's clumsy, as though she was aiming for her cheek, or didn't have the strength to aim, that she kissed Margaret was more important than the kiss itself.