He dragged the box close to Kennet’s bed. Kennet reached to open the other flaps. The box was full of silverware, some of it brand new, still in its original packing. O’Hara took out an unwrapped fork and displayed it with the biggest smile Kennet had even seen him wear. “Look at that.”

The fork’s handle was shaped like a fish. The tail was situated at the top, the body curving out and in, to fit comfortably in the eater’s hand and provide resting places for index finger and thumb. At the bottom of the utensil, the fish’s mouth opened to hold a perfect scallop shell, tiny balls like pearls set delicately between each ridge.

“Look at that,” O’Hara said again. “Silver fit for a family of fishermen. Waiting right here for you.”

The fork felt beautiful in Kennet’s hand. Sleek and expensive. Luxury and security radiated through the soft, strong silver. He wanted to hold it forever. Still clutching it, his free hand rifled in the box, finding more forks—dinner and luncheon, plus knives, spoons of all sizes, serving pieces, all with that gorgeous fish handle and the scallop shell at their ends.

“Take it,” O’Hara said.

Kennet glanced at this enigmatic man who attached himself to nothing. A man who never opened a pack of gum or M&Ms without offering it around. O’Hara would give you the gloves off his hands or the socks off his feet. When he was down to the last cigarette in the pack, he shook it out for you and went without. It wasn’t performance generosity. He wasn’t looking to earn points or admiration or respect or even a payback. O’Hara simply didn’t need or want anything. Now a possessive gleam lit up his dark blue eyes. He didn’t covet the silver outright—he wanted it for Kennet. But he wanted.

“The spoils of war,” O’Hara said. “What, is it supposed to end up on some German family’s table? If you don’t take it, some major or general will bring it home to his wife. Fuck that. You take it. You earned it. Bring it home to your father. Did you ever get a wedding gift for him and Marta?”

“No.”

“This is it, then. Or hell, gift it to your bride on your wedding day and then hand it down to your kids.”

“How would I get it home?”

“Mail it. You just need signed permission from an officer to send a package, but he doesn’t have to know what’s in it. If he asks, say it’s a gift for your father.”

Kennet’s greedy fingers stroked the body of the fish, traced the open mouth holding the seashell.

I want it.

I deserve it.

Gift it to my bride on my wedding day. Bequeath it to my children.

The spoils of war.