“That’s it. He says she’s likely headed out to some island to the west. The boys pooled some dough, hired this Kookoo—Kaiko, whatever his name is—to fly us there once this goddamned squall—Janey, are you listening? You know I’m doing my best—”

“Yes, of course,” I reply. And I am listening. I really am. But this emergency, this imminent invasion of curious newspapermen and, inevitably, the rest of the goddamned world, seems so distant to me, as faint and far away as Bill’s own voice.

Because in front of me, between my fingers, I see a photograph of a blond, spindly girl dressed in her first school uniform, unmistakably Doris, and a bewildered towhead in short pants who is unmistakably Wesley.

As for the proud man who holds the hands of these imps before the Hanalei school gate, he is unmistakably my father.

Aviatrix by Eugenia Everett (excerpt)

May 1937: Spain

Irene could see from George’s expression that the scene was terrible. She knew she had bled heavily; she still didn’t realize how badly Sam had been hurt too. So there was blood everywhere, like the remains of some brutal murder. Irene could smell the blood; it hung so thick and coppery in the confined air of the Potez, she had almost forgotten it was there.

George stopped short, looked this way and that, stumbled back outside the airplane and was sick in the sand.

“Thank God you’re here,” croaked Sam.

“Mother of God,” whispered Raoul. “What has happened here?”

“Irene was hurt in the bombing at the Bilbao airfield. I was evacuating her to Valencia but the fuel tank’d been strafed, we didn’t see the bullet hole because it was dark, and we ran out of fuel.”

George climbed back inside, pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose, and knelt next to Irene. “Can you talk, sweetheart?”

“She needs water, for God’s sake!”

Raoul had already unstrapped his canteen and held it to Irene’s lips. “She has had the baby?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Sam. “Back in Bilbao. He lived for thirty-two minutes. I buried him with my own hands.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said George, “but it’s probably for the best.”

Sam stood up on his knees, hauled up George by his collar, and drew back his fist. But he did not punch. His left leg crumpled underneath him, and he collapsed on the metal deck next to Irene.

George straightened his collar and knelt back down. “Darling, we’ll get you out of here, I promise. I’ve got a doctor waiting in Valencia—”

“What about Sam?”

George glanced at Sam. “I’m afraid someone will have to come back for Mallory. The airplane won’t take a fourth passenger.”

“But Sam’s hurt. He needs a doctor too.”