After a few minutes, they went out to the platform. They might not have tickets, but at least they’d been seen in line.

“What do you want to see in London?” Clay asked.

Without money, they couldn’t see much, but the conversation made them look like fellows on a furlough. Too bad Clay couldn’t visit the British Library for Leah. Of course, he’d sent her the camera, so he couldn’t take pictures anyway.

She’d sent him a dozen photos—standing outside her house, sewing tiny nightgowns on Rita Sue’s sewing machine, sitting in a rocking chair in a sparsely furnished living room, and more. He couldn’t believe how big she was, or how cute she looked so big.

The train huffed into the station, and Clay and G. M. stepped into an empty compartment. They planned to fake sleep to ward off the conductor. If caught, they’d get off at the next station and repeat the ruse on the next train.

A man in his fifties joined them, a gray mustache breaking up his square face.

The British were reserved, but Clay didn’t want to be rude. “Good morning, sir.”

He peered at Clay, not smiling, but not frowning. “Going on a bit of leave, are you, chaps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make the most of the time you have.” He gazed out the window as the train pulled away from the station. “I was at the Somme in the trenches.”

In the First World War. Clay pulled in a long breath. “I reckon that was tough.”

“A Hun bayonetted me in the side, but I muddled through.” He kept looking out the window.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Gene yawned loudly. “Pardon my manners.”

His buddy had a point. They couldn’t be seen as awake when the conductor arrived. “Pardon us, sir. We were on maneuvers all night. Reckon we’ll be mighty poor company.”

“Rest while you can.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clay settled down with his pack for a lumpy pillow.

Soon Gene was snoring, nothing fake about it. The man could sleep anywhere.

Clay affected slow, even breathing, with startles and snuffles when the train jostled.

After about half an hour, the door to the passageway opened. “Tickets?”

“Please don’t disturb these chaps,” the veteran said. “They don’t have long.”

“Very good, sir.”

No, Clay didn’t have long. A few weeks? A few months at most. Not long ago, that would have filled him with relief. But not anymore.

He wanted to live long enough to know Leah and the baby had come through childbirth. He wanted to see a picture of the child who would bear his name after he was gone. Just a while longer, Lord. Please.

Clay marched under Paddington Station’s great arched ceiling. “We made it.”

“That veteran helped. I think he was on to us.”

“I’m sure of it.”