Later, in the shelter of a half-ruined warehouse, the people stitch themselves into stories. The farmer teaches a boy to whittle a soldier back into shape. The sisters barter a can of jam for a place at a stove. The commander—paper-thin and astonished at his own luck—writes the phrase “isaidub” on a scrap of paper, folds it into the photograph of the child with the tin soldier, and tucks both into his breast pocket like a talisman.
