At Remount Station, the captain in charge of agriculture and associated animals told him the dogs were military property and would be removed from him, and then, after Leland gave him twenty dollars, he found a memo rescinding that order. He then confided that if Leland bribed a sailor properly, the dogs might be smuggled on board in a sea bag, though the captain of the ship would be likely to throw them overboard when they reached international waters.

A makeshift Kasbah had set up near the docks, rugs rolled out on the ground under canvas awnings, each one with its own merchant hawking souvenirs—postcards, belt buckles, cuckoo clocks, even propeller blades, though it was unclear how anyone could carry something like that home. Leland drifted among the merchandise one evening. He had his dogs with him, as ever—since they’d taken to stealing socks and boots, he’d taken to sleeping outside the barracks, and now that the weather was good, he no longer needed to pack a tent.

He was developing a blind philosophical acceptance that something would work out, and that if it did, it meant only that his time had come. It made no sense that a man would be born only to get nothing that he wanted. He thought Harry would be proud of that. “Dear Mom,” he thought.

He passed a black velvet blanket dotted with jewels, and he paused only because he wondered how quickly, if he owned it, that velvet would get covered in dog hair. This was long enough for the hawker, who produced a ring for him and waved it under his nose as if its fragrance were intoxicating.

“Opals, opals, opals. From Australia. Look,” the merchant said, excitedly. He pointed into the ring’s band.

Leland could just read, by the market lights, an inscription. Yes. He laughed.

“Antique! It is an antique!” the merchant yelled. He was short and round and pale-skinned, a heavy beard bristling around his jowls, and he could have been from France or Spain or a thousand miles away. “At least older than you are.”

Leland closed one eye. Three small opals surrounded by crushed … something … something that sparkled, perhaps actual diamonds, set in a band that was perhaps gold. And inside, that Yes. This struck him as ridiculous and corny. Yet he was already counting on his fingers. He had $105 left. The ring was $150. Then it was $120. He had no business buying a ring, and no one to give it to, and it was as likely to be made of ground glass and painted brass as of anything else. It was the Yes that tipped him. A small purchase would be an act of faith that, one day in the future, he might have use for it.

“Seventy-five.”

“One ten.”

“Seventy-five.”

“One hundred.”

“Sixty.”