Papillon had just completed a double loop that set off a round of gasps and applause among the spectators. Irene thought she saw Sam lift his hand and wave to them as he soared up and off, presumably to circle the airfield and return for another maneuver, or else to land. The airplane grew tiny against the sky, a white gnat, and then disappeared altogether when it crossed a cluster of cumulus that gathered atop the hills to the east. A minute passed, and another. Next to Irene, Mrs. Rofrano checked her watch and folded her arms. Several yards away stood a group of pilots and mechanics who’d emerged from the cafeteria and from their sheds to watch Sam’s antics. One of them—stern, dark-haired fellow—glanced to Mrs. Rofrano and exchanged some telegraphic communication.

“Who’s that?” Irene whispered.

“My husband.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back around any moment.”

But the seconds ticked on, and still there was no sign of the returning airplane. One of the other men turned away and scuffed his feet in the grass. Another lit a cigarette. Irene knew better than to say anything. The silence held them together. Nobody needed to say a single word; everything known was obvious, everything unknown was better off unmentioned. Like among the surfers back in Santa Monica, you didn’t talk about the danger or the possibility of annihilation, the various scenarios when somebody went missing, sharks or rogue waves or cramp or miscalculation. What was the point?

Over on Vanowen, an engine backfired. Everybody jumped, except Mr. Rofrano, who just flinched. Irene remembered what Sam had said, that Rofrano had flown in France during the war. She looked at his profile, at the nape of his neck, and tried to imagine him flying over France, dodging enemy fire, shooting down other airplanes. The most dangerous job in the war, she knew. If the Germans didn’t get you, the airplane would. On the other hand, it was better than dying on the ground, in a trench, like a rat. At least you died free, you died in honorable combat, like a knight or a bird of prey. Mr. Rofrano had a large, sharp nose, and it pointed to the sky, hunting for the Papillon. If anyone could pluck out an airplane from the sky, it was surely this man, a wartime flying ace.

Mr. Rofrano lifted a pair of field binoculars to his eyes. A stir passed through the crowd. Mrs. Rofrano touched Irene’s elbow and nodded to the sky.

At first Irene didn’t see anything, just that deep, flawless California blue and the green-golden hills underneath. She squinted and shaded her eyes. Somebody swore softly. She heard the purr of an engine, but it was just another automobile passing down the road. “Where?” she whispered to Mrs. Rofrano.

Mrs. Rofrano pointed.

Irene blinked and squinted.