“No kidding,” Nick said, licking the last drop of mustard off his thumb and tucking his third hot dog wrapper under the seat. “Maybe I should defect.”

The game had moved along at a brisk pace; aside from one run batted in by the Cubs, there had been no action until the bottom of the sixth. The seats around us weren’t totally filled, though I knew PPOs Stout, Twiggy, Popeye, and Furrow were fanned out in the adjacent sections. I’d caught Furrow standing up and yelling something that, by the reactions of the Cubs fans around him, had been very entertaining and not at all flattering to the ump.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Finally headed into the thick of it. Last Wi-Fi I’ll have for a while. Where are you?

Freddie had been assigned to a Special Boat Service unit that was on furlough in Europe, giving him time to acclimate in a low-pressure environment before seeing any action. His dispatches were infrequent, but funny, often about something absurd he’d done in Frankfurt with his terrible Niles wig while trying to stay hidden—or, once, a selfie of him with Daphne, whom he’d visited during a holiday weekend. It was a relief to see him with a friendly, familiar face, as if she extended our reach across the globe and could therefore help us collectively will him back safely.

I snapped a photo of Wrigley and pressed send. One last hurrah before we head back home.

His response was immediate. Excuse me, did you refer to London as ‘back home’?

I paused. I checked. I had.

Another message: Your line here is, ‘Yes, Freddie, you told me so, you are brilliant and wise.’

I sent back the middle-finger emoji. Then: Good luck out there. Hope the helmet fits over your massive ego.

I pocketed my phone and leaned back, breathing in the smell of peanut shells and hot dog remnants and beer, so much beer, as I gazed out across the jewel of a field. If New York had felt far removed from my memories of it, Wrigley Field, with its clock over the league scoreboard and its iconic ivy-covered walls, was still as familiar to me as my own hands. The irony was that I knew I was here to say goodbye. Freddie had been right. Something in my perspective had shifted, something necessary. I had a job and a life in England, and while the States would always be dear to me, London was my home.

Another crack. Addison Russell hit a perfect single up the middle. He drove in two runs; by the time the inning ended, the Cubs had a 6–0 lead. I leapt out of my seat and screamed, pumping my fists, then threw myself delightedly at Nick, folding my arms around him.

“What a first game,” I crowed.