We have you. Our greatest weapon. The storyteller.

Pale grey light was seeping through his bedroom windows. Dawn was coming, but Kennet was wide awake. He went digging in a drawer for the notebook he’d carried across Europe. The entries stopped after April 2, 1945, at Oberhof, where Hook was killed. Hook, who was leading the mob this time. Throwing his life story at Kennet’s feet.

You’re all I had and you quit on me.

Kennet sat down at his desk and switched on the lamp.

“All right, Richie,” he said under his breath. “Jesus H, you do know how to get a fucking point across.”

He found a pencil, turned to the page he left off, and began to write.

Bra Som Guld

Kennet wrote all morning, prying everything he could from the folds of memory and throwing it down on the page. It was fragmented and out of order, the narrative jumping ahead and doubling back like an untrained puppy. But he paid no mind, just writing what came to him as it came. Already he envisioned a brand-new notebook, into he which he would transcribe this haphazard mess.

It rained fish hooks and hammer handles, which lent him more time. He brought a sandwich and a beer up to his room and kept scribbling until his fingers were howling and he was yawning big enough to make his jaw crack. He toppled back into bed and slept the afternoon away, waking up groggy and disoriented. The house seemed oddly empty, which lent a dream-like unease to his walk downstairs, looking for his people. He felt tense and hyper-alert, as if about to head into battle.

He found Emil in the kitchen, reading the paper over coffee and the remains of last night’s dessert.

“Here you are,” he said. “Rip van Winkle.”

“Is it today?” Kennet said, a little stupidly.

“Still. Get a cup and sit down.”

Kennet sat and yawned against the back of a fist. He was absurdly divided: his body anxious and ready to fight or flee, his mind full of quicksand. “Sorry about last night,” he said. “Or this morning, rather.”

“Bushwa. I did my share of yelling when I got home from France. Scared your mother right out of the bed. I bet I woke you up in her belly, too.”

“Were you married yet?”