The younger sister brought lemonade, strawberries. Mr. Moriyama sat across from him and Mrs. Moriyama placed herself in a wooden chair in the corner, the most uncomfortable chair in the room. She was staring at Amarjeet, as if he could change what had happened, as if he owed her something. Her stare was unwavering, her eyes deep and beyond despair. Amarjeet’s heartbeat quickened. Had he been wrong to come? But how could he have stayed away? He had promised Harry, and he knew he would have come even if he had promised him nothing at all, if he did not even have the letters.

“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.