“How you are, son?” Mr. Moriyama asked. Amarjeet’s eyes welled up. The question was asked so gently. It was asked with true concern, as if he were the one who had lost Harry. He had never before heard Mr. Moriyama call anyone “son,” not even Harry. It was too American.

Amarjeet took a deep breath to control himself, aware of Mrs. Moriyama in the dark corner. He stared at the hands on his lap. His hands.

“You come home quickly,” Mr. Moriyama said. “That is good. Some boys still there. And you are safe. That is very good too.” He nodded, a small trace of a bow, for emphasis.

“The trip was long,” Amarjeet said. “The ship was not comfortable. The food was terrible, but they tried to treat us well.” He was starting to blather. “The French loved us.” He gave a little laugh. Harry’s parents were staring at the ground. Yuki sat at her mother’s feet. Masa stood at the edge of the room.

“That boy Haruo save. He come back?” Mr. Moriyama asked.

Amarjeet grew quiet. Mrs. Moriyama locked her gaze on him again. He felt more composed now. “Sam Pinkerton, from the Valley. Our sergeant. That’s who Haruo saved. I was on the train with him,” he said. “Also Jedediah Smith from Bakersfield,” Amarjeet volunteered.

Mr. Moriyama gave a curt nod, then his face was stone again. “He die alone?”

The direct question startled him. Amarjeet pursed his lips to keep the tears at bay. He thought of the field hospital set up in the village church. Cots were lined up in a section of the sanctuary that had not been shelled. Military doctors and nurses and volunteers from the countryside treated the fallen soldiers. Harry was surrounded by stricken boys; some lay silent, some moaned deliriously. Some had lost a leg or an arm or their genitals or the ability to breathe freely. Whenever Amarjeet visited, it stank of blood, vomit, and urine; he could smell that smell even now.

“I sat with him as often as I could. Whenever I did not have to drill or care for the horses.” Was that guilt he heard in his voice? The other boys visited the taverns or played basketball in the warming spring air. Other boys fraternized with the daughters of the families with whom they were billeted.

Amarjeet reached inside his pocket. “I brought you these letters. Harry was writing them to you. So many of them, every day in the hospital. He didn’t want you to get them with the other things.” They had argued when Harry said he thought he wouldn’t make it back. Amarjeet’s voice cracked. “He wanted me to carry them to you myself.”