Pat had done so twice, and he did again. He peered through the beveled glass above the knob and worried about the small chicken coop in the back. His mother had three hens, Aoife, Oona, and Grainne, and when last he checked they appeared content to sleep through the storm. The wind hollered at the back door, and Pat ran up the stairs to the hallway. He knew his way through the darkness to the apartment door. The Malones lived in a railroad flat above the grocery. One Seventy-Three Willis Avenue had been built after the Tenement Acts, but that didn’t stop the four-story walk-up from falling down around them. Hannah was filling pitchers of water from the tub. Their faucets weren’t on a pump—his father, Jack, had yelled at her about this—but she hoarded water all the same.

“All right, Paddy, all we’re missing is this storm.” Hannah stacked the pitchers on the ledge by the tub and poked her head toward the window by the fire escape. “Maybe it will jog.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“The Lord loves every last-minute fool.” Hannah shook her head, arguing this point with herself. “He’ll be here. A little late to help, but don’t worry. He’ll be here before the bad stuff passes through.”

Pat’s bedroom lay off a foul-smelling air shaft hidden behind a slim, smeared window. He checked his contraband—comics, candles, and caramels—and lay down on his bed listening to the wind whistle overhead. Hannah ferried back and forth, muttering prayers and curses, and finally retreated to the kitchen to start dinner. Better to light the gas now and boil everything. Before it gets bad. And before this man shows up in God knows what state of lunacy.

An uneasy hour passed, and the apartment darkened as the long, swift bands of the storm swiped at the city. Here it came now, and with it, coughing on the landing and a turn of the key. Jack Malone barged in.

“Hannah? Paddy? Where is everyone?” The door creaked open a second time. “Katie, bar the door, for Christ’s sake. This wind. Family, we have company.”

Hannah and Pat appeared in the hallway, and there was Jack, stooped, wheezing, with a sailor of the British navy standing behind him.

“There they are. Hannah, this is Tom Donovan. Paddy, come meet your long-lost cousin. His ship is in, and I found him as they were closing down Feely’s for this blow.” Jack still hadn’t caught his breath as he missed the hook with his cap. “Come in, come in. Before we gust away. Nowhere to go during this feckin storm.”

The two of them wafted into the living room on fumes of booze and tobacco ash. Hannah kept her distance and glared from down the dark hallway.