“Something happened,” she said. “He’d never desert us.”

Bertie nodded, then adjusted his hands on the steering wheel.

She wondered where Ollie could be. As a civilian or, more precisely, a foreigner, he wouldn’t have been permitted to remain on North Weald Airfield. And it’d be difficult not to draw attention with an American accent. It was as if he had vanished, like a down feather in the wind.

Part of her wished Bertie was right. If he had deserted and left for home, maybe he’d be safe, away from the rationing, bombs, and death. But the selfish part of her wanted him by her side. Her pigeons had gone to war. London was being destroyed by the Luftwaffe. Inevitably, the Germans would invade. More than anything, she needed him. She longed for his support and affection. He’d given her hope. And during the darkest of days, he’d stirred her heart.

As they drove through Epping, she closed her eyes, trying to avoid catching a glimpse of St. Margaret’s Hospital. She couldn’t bear the sight of another expectant mother dug out of the debris at Sprigg’s Oak Maternity Home.

The tires rolled over large ruts. Susan pressed her cheek against the window and looked up. The clouds were thick and strewn with streaks of navy—a sign of approaching winter. High above, she saw a speck. She strained to focus. A bird. The unique stroke of its wings made her shoot up in her seat. She quickly cranked down the window.

“What’s wrong?” Bertie asked.

Susan pointed. “Pigeon.”

He looked up through the windshield. “Duchess?”

Susan stuck her head out the window. Cold wind blasted her face. The pigeon was too high to see the colors, but she knew the effortless grace of Duchess’s flight, and this pigeon was flapping its wings too fast.

“No,” she said, pushing hair from her eyes.

“One of ours?” He squinted.

She leaned farther out the window. The pigeon veered to the west. Her heart raced. “I think so.”

Bertie pulled Susan to her seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor.

“There!” Susan pointed. “It’s headed home!”

Bertie downshifted and rounded a turn. The bald tires squealed. The truck gathered speed. The engine howled. Pistons banged against their casings. He drove like a young British racer trying to qualify for a grand prix.

Gusting wind unraveled the bun from Susan’s hair. She pushed flying strands from her face and struggled to spot the pigeon.