Over the next hour, Leah saw photos of her father at an award ceremony, of her parents dressed as Zeus and Hera for a party, and of the young parents and baby Thalia at a faculty picnic on the shore of Lake Michigan.

She heard stories of her father’s exuberant teaching and her mother’s sense of humor, her father’s clumsiness and her mother’s gift with a needle and thread, and of their love for their girls.

She cried over the article about her parents’ deaths—how Althea had gotten her heel stuck in a crack in the street and had struggled to unlace her shoe, how her father saved his three daughters and shielded his wife when a car careened around the corner.

Leah held in her hands a book her father had written on Greek poetry, dedicated to his four muses.

Dr. Demetrios set newspaper clippings and photographs back into the box. “These are for you, Thalia.”

“But they’re yours,” Leah said, even as she clutched the book. “He was your friend.”

“And I will always remember him dearly.” He slid the box to her. “But he was your father. These belong to you.”

Leah set a tentative hand on the box. “Thank you.”

“If you don’t have plans tomorrow, please come to the university.” Dr. Demetrios settled back on the couch. “I can show you where Georgi’s office was and give you a tour.”

“I’d love that. I especially want to see the library.” Leah picked up her purse, pulled out the postcard, and passed it to her guests. “This is how I learned I was from Chicago. When I saw this, I remembered the library so clearly I could smell it. This is how I found you and my name and my sisters and my . . . my identity.”

Mrs. Demetrios’s face twisted with sweet sympathy. “I’m so glad we could help.”

Leah stroked the dust jacket of her father’s book.

No, her identity had never been lost. At her core, she was the same as she’d been a week earlier. Even without her birth name, without having seen her sisters, without any information on her family history, she’d always been complete.

She always would be.

USS Texas, OFF NORMANDY
THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 1944

Gene stood on crutches at the foot of Clay’s cot lying on the deck of the battleship’s crowded sick bay. “You look real good, Pax.”

He found a smile for his friend.

“You didn’t look so good when they took you on board.” Gene tipped to the side and readjusted his crutches. “Doc says you perked right up with oxygen and some blood, and then they took you to surgery. Sure am glad.”

“Me too.” Clay sat propped up against a metal locker, very much alive. “How are you?”