“You know I won’t ever lie to you, Pescado. It’s not going to be good news.”

“What, like, a death in the family?”

“Probably.”

“It’s my father. Shit, it’s my father or my uncle.”

Ingles eyes on him were soft, a little puzzled. But he only said, “Go on in. I’m gonna get Hook, and he and I will wait for you.”

“Shit…”

“We’ll wait outside the whole time. Whatever they tell you, it’s our news, too. Go on. Get it over with.”

Kennet walked in, the whole narrative framed out in his mind. Paps. Aw, Paps, shit. Shit. I didn’t even get to… Oh Christ on a cracker, Paps, I’m sorry.

He saluted the officers. Jorgy told him at ease and motioned him to sit. The chaplain hitched his chair a quarter-inch closer to Kennet. He was a new and dearly welcome attachment to the battalion. Their last spiritual counselor had been a cadaverous square with the personality of an ironing board. This new guy, Patrick Scott, was young and personable. Comforting, but never a sap. Spiritual without the accompanying stick up his ass. He was “sir” or “chaplain” at first meeting, then nothing but “Chaps” or “Padre” or even “Scottie.”

Jorgy cleared his throat. “Fish, I’m afraid I—”

“Is it my father, sir?” Kennet said.

Jorgy blinked. “Come again?”

“It’s about my dad, right?” Kennet glanced at Scottie, then back at Jorgy. “Is that the news?”

“No,” Jorgy said. “No, Fish. It’s your brother.”

The cold fingers at Kennet’s neck became a choking vise. Mocking as they cut off the air to his lungs. You thought it was Pappa? Aren’t you precious. In the middle of this stinking, filthy war, you thought your old man was going to be a casualty. Not a thought for your brothers in arms. How droll.

A buzzing in his ears. Jorgy was talking. Scottie, too, with a hand on Kennet’s shoulder. Jorgy passed an envelope over the small table he used as a desk. It was a letter on Fisher Hotel stationery, addressed not to Kennet but to the captain. It was already opened, no doubt read by the censors, then by Jorgy and the chaplain, leaving Kennet the last to know.

He took it. His lips moved, shaping soundless words.

Minor or Nalle? It’s Minor or Nalle, which one, which death am I holding, who is dead, which of my brothers is dead?

Tadpoles swam in Kennet’s eyes as he pulled out a letter in Marta’s handwriting, folded around the flimsy, yellow paper of Western Union.

31 GOVT

WASHINGTON D C 845 PM 2-28-45

MR EMIL FISKARE

HUGUNIN STREET CLAYTON N.Y.

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEPEST REGRET THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE BJÖRN K. FISKARE WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON TWENTY-SECOND FEBRUARY IN ITALY. LETTER FOLLOWS.

ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL

“I’m so sorry,” Jorgy said.