“Fellow who runs the place.” Mr. Mallory parked the car in the rhombus of shade cast by one of the buildings. “Moved here from New York in ’22 and bought the land up to fly his own planes. Then all his old Army Air Service pals came out and asked if they could fly there too. Pretty soon he had a business going.”

Mr. Mallory yanked open the door and stepped onto the grass. The noise woke the kitten. Limb by limb it uncurled in Irene’s lap, yawned, and dug its claws into her leg like tiny pins, kneading and kneading. She detached it with one hand and reached for the door handle and leapt free—insofar as you could leap in a lean skirt of navy blue poplin, cut a few inches longer than what was then considered fashionable—and nearly crashed into Mr. Mallory, who had come around to open the door for her. Sorry, she said, just as Mr. Mallory said sorry too. He laughed and reached for Sandy. “Let me take that cat off your hands, hmm? Then we’ll go find you a spark plug.”

Together they walked toward the row of sheds that turned out—when you got close enough to appreciate their size—to be airplane hangars. Already a few men milled about, reeking of cigarettes and engine oil and energy. Mr. Mallory raised his hand and said hello. The other hand maneuvered Sandy, who was climbing his shirt to knead the skin at the base of his throat. Together they reached the easternmost hangar and the biplane poised beside it, catching the morning sun in a burst of white. Irene stopped. She had never stood so close to an airplane; it was like a mythic beast to her. She stared at the wing, which was larger than she expected and also more frail.

“What’s it made of?” she asked.

“Just canvas and wood,” said Mr. Mallory.

Irene wanted to touch, but she didn’t. The airplane’s skin reminded her of the wing of an insect, so thin as to defy physics. If force equaled mass times velocity, how could something that frail survive the invincible wind? On the other hand, insects could fly, that was indisputable. Irene reached out and laid her fingertip on the edge of the wing, laid her hand on an airplane for the first time. But it wasn’t delicate after all. It was stiff and lacquered, the same texture as metal. Soon she would learn that the fabric was coated in a kind of glue they called dope, and this was the source of the distinctive smell she would shortly encounter inside the hangar.

But all that lay in the future. Now there was only wonder.