Rich (13/26): For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway.

See, there's this guy, an American guy, all James-Bond-like -- the Sean Connery subtle/cool style, not the Pierce Brosnan shoot-anything-that-moves type -- that's working behind enemy lines in the Spanish Civil War. He's got a bridge to blow so that the other, larger surprise offensive can be successful. But, he can't do it alone, right? He's got the help of the local guerilla, who've been through hell and then some (see what happens when some fascists start making trouble in your neighborhood.) Their bad-ass rebel leader used to be the Luke Skywalker-type who could execute a man and still be in time for his haircut appointment. But, he's no longer that man, and his wife hates him for it. She reads the palm of the Inglés and sees his future, but won't reveal it. At least she can control the band of rebel men, while her husband worries about his precious horses. The old man. The old man knows these mountains well and has killed before, but thinks to do so is a sin. But, the Inglés likes him and knows he, at least, will follow his orders. But, what of the girl? She was once beautiful, but war turns husbands, fathers, and brothers into savages and wives, daughters, and sisters into fruits to be consumed. This girl, once ripe, but now bruised, distracts the Inglés from his job, his duty. The covert agent is human; moreover, he is a man.

And, the snow begins to fall. It's August, early in the year, but not unusual in these high altitudes. It is everywhere and falls without a sound, in contrast to the bombs that can be heard, but not seen. It is impossible to tell what the snow is covering up, and impossible to leave no tracks after it has fallen. The girl is a good thing, the snow is not.