I point at one of the brighter stars. “What’s that big red one?”

“The White Tiger to the Chinese. Westerners call it the Bull.”

Isn’t that like life? Two people look at the same object but see two different things. I look at shoveling coal and see a job. He sees a calling.

“So why do you like those boiler rooms so much? It’s so dark down there.” I shiver.

“How would you know?” he chides.

Jamie knows well my fear of dark, confined spaces. He’s the one who found me after I fell into the coal hole, only six years old and spindly.

He shifts around again, pulling at his clothes. Finally settling, he sighs. “When Drummer bangs out the beats, and we get into a rhythm, I feel content, peaceful. Sometimes when the weather’s good, we’ll string hammocks on the deck, and I’ll lose myself in the stars. I couldn’t sleep all night when Halley’s Comet came around.”

I soak in all the constellations, like so many grains of spilled salt. “That is one savory stew.”

“It’s mad, right?” His voice becomes animated. “In London, we’re lucky to see a few stars a month. But out here, they’re everywhere. I still can’t get over it. I feel like if I reached high enough, I could scoop out a whole handful, then blow them away like dandelion seeds.”

When we were children, Jamie and I blew wishes off dandelions, like all kids. But one night, our parents were quarreling in the kitchen, and a dandelion just wasn’t handy. Jamie, lying next to me in our half bed, said that if we blew anyway, the heavens would still hear us, even without the dandelion, and maybe grant our wish. He took my hand, and together we blew, just a puff. My parents quieted. Then just like that, Mum laughed. After that, we didn’t need dandelions to wish. We’d just blow. And every time a wish came true, I’d hear Mum’s sweet laugh.

More quietly, he adds, “I see her up there, too, you know.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Dancing with her shoes off. Remember?”

I smile. “Yes.”

Mum loved singing bawdry tunes and kicking up her heels while the bread baked, though I never found out where the vicar’s daughter picked up such songs.

“But sometimes, she’s quiet. Like she’s just watching us from the window.” His sigh takes its time leaving.

Jamie and I competed for our mum’s affections, but he adored her the most. We both picked her flowers whenever we passed a good patch, but he did it even in the pouring rain.

I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

“Jamie?”

“Hmm?” His gaze is still pointed to the stars, but his brow is knitted in thought.

“There are stars in New York, too.”