Company of Good Cheer, Tom said to himself. Or more correctly, Order of Good Cheer. He called up history, Champlain’s tedious and difficult winters at Port-Royal in the early 1600s. Champlain—or someone in his company—must have come up with L’Ordre de Bon Temps to fend off bad times, sad times, confinement magnified to a state that could lead to madness. Alleviated, supposedly, by the bountiful supply of moose and woodland caribou and small game; by storytelling, singing and merriment after the meal. Maybe those men four hundred years ago had a handle on events in life that were worthy of celebration. Maybe there was that much contrast between cheer and the stark conditions that threatened survival.

Tom was feeling cheered for another reason: the day’s transactions at Rigmarole. After some delay, the couple he’d contacted about the papier mâché chair had arrived that morning and purchased both chair and tray, two substantial sales. He was sorry Allam had not been present to see the appreciation on their faces. He wondered now if his friend would pull out an interesting fact or two for this group—this company. The man had an unending supply.

Chiyo was thinking, Tragic hero, Letters from Iwo Jima. The new member of our “company” is about the same age as Ken Watanabe. Allam has tragedy written all over him, but he’s not a brooding presence. She and Spence had gone to see the brooding Watanabe in the recent film Bel Canto. Some scenes were difficult to watch. When violence was portrayed, she closed her eyes.

A company, Gwen said to herself. A pandemonium of parrots. She knew how much racket one parrot could make. No surprise that a company of parrots was also known as a pandemonium. Maybe someday, she would be fortunate enough to see and hear a company of parrots in their natural habitat.

Not very likely.

She had nothing to contribute. She waited for the discussion to begin and looked to Hazzley, who was ready to take up the reins of leadership.

“We’re glad to have your company,” Hazzley told Allam. “Tom probably told you that the reason we meet is because all of us have experienced loss of some kind recently. Grief in our lives. Though that’s not the only topic we discuss. We talk about anything, everything.”

Allam nodded. “Yes, Toe-mas has explained.”

“Do you live in this area, Allam?” This was Addie.

“Close enough to walk,” he said. “But tonight I am in the car with Toe-mas. I have been in Wilna Creek not yet one year, and I live with my daughter’s family. They arrived three years past, and together we rent a house. The house is having an extra bedroom, even for me. Someday I will have my own place. I can’t forever live with my daughter. Of course, she would not ask me to leave.” He tossed his head back and laughed as if the idea were preposterous.

“At my daughter’s, we have more space than we have known before. I was in a refugee camp in Turkey, near the border. I was sponsored by my daughter, who left Syria before me. She went with her family, also through Turkey.” Allam shrugged. “Life is good now, but in the past, not so much. And we don’t forget the people left behind. In camps—thousands, hundreds of thousands. In Lebanon, close to one million Syrian people are registered with UNHCR, the agency for refugees.” He stopped. “Many more would leave if there was a way of doing this.”