There with them was Raymond, his skin tan from the long summer, not the bronze of Jimmy’s flesh but a darker hue, oak bark or granite. His eyes, dark and slim, still glinted as he spoke, even at this distance, under the black sheen of his hair. She realized now that he was very nearly a man. In a world different from this one he might have been a film star, such was his beauty, intense and deep and with a hint of tragedy. He laughed then and she could hear it, the sound of that moment of joy, and she wondered, not for the first time, what the future would bring to that boy, to any of those children. Both boys, their whole lives set like compass arrows pointing unwaveringly toward their own tragic ends. Hardly a year for Jimmy. Three for Ray. And Helen’s life blown all to pieces in the aftermath.

Kimiko wondered how long she would have to listen to ­Evelyn Wilson’s nervous and self-involved prattle, but then Homer ­Wilson’s voice came, a short, sonorous sound across the stacked parcels and the gravel, calling Jimmy’s name. Jimmy mumbled something to his friends and then came to where Homer and Hiro stood beside another small cluster of suitcases and boxes, their sides labeled with numbers and names. Beyond them, in the gravel, Helen’s and Raymond’s hands touched briefly, ­Kimiko watching without emotion but wondering what such a thing could mean, the touch seeming tentative and awkward between them. Just children trying to say goodbye, she told herself, for what else could it have been?

The sound of the buses now. Perhaps Homer had heard it first and this was why he had called Jimmy to his side. But why Jimmy and not Helen as well? Why not both of them?

“Raymond,” Hiro called now, and the boy looked up. His face was a mask of impassivity held, Kimiko thought, over a second mask of pain and fear and heartbreak. Oh my boy, she thought. Oh my beautiful boy. “Go find your sisters,” Hiro called, and the boy looked from his father to the girl—woman? no still a girl—and then Helen called, “I’ll help,” and they turned as one, moving away.

“Here they come,” Homer said. His hand was on Hiro’s shoulder. “Christ, this is a mess.”

“Yes,” her husband said, nodding.

“A goddamned mess.” And Kimiko was surprised to see that Homer’s eyes were bright and shining with the threat of tears. “We’ll get this straightened out, Tak,” he said now. “You’ll see. Just give it a week or two.”

“And we’ll take care of everything while you’re gone,” ­Evelyn said from beside him. “Don’t you worry.”

“Mrs. Wilson,” Hiro said now, turning with solemnity toward their landlord’s wife and nodding and then half bowing, “you are too kind.”