Bishop took a drink from the flask and handed it back to Ollie. The second drink didn’t burn as much as the first, only warming Ollie’s stomach and leaving a strong peaty taste in his mouth.

“You have me beat by a full year with your first solo flight,” Bishop said. “When I was fifteen, I built a plane out of shipping cardboard, crates, and twine. I flew it off the top of my parents’ three-story house in Ontario or, more accurately, crashed my ostrich of a monstrosity into my mother’s rose garden. My sister dug me out of the wreckage using a pruning shear. Fortunately, I was unharmed except for a bad scrape and the scolding from my parents.” Bishop rolled up his sleeve, showed Ollie a long, thin scar that ran across his elbow, and took a swig from the flask.

They spent the next hour talking about flying, sharing stories of biplane maneuvers: barrel rolls, English bunts, inside loops, outside loops, lazy eights, and Immelmann turns. When the pilot came over and told Bishop that the engine was fixed, Bishop waved him off and told him to check over the plane again.

Bishop leaned back on the bench. “So, Ollie, what do you think about the war?”

He thought of his conversations with his parents and felt a sudden loss wash over him. “I don’t understand why we aren’t in the war yet, or at least helping.”

Bishop nodded. “Ever consider joining the air corps?”

“The US Army Air Corps requires a college education, which I don’t have yet.”

Bishop smiled. “The Canadian and British air corps don’t have that requirement, only three hundred hours of fly time, a pilot’s license, and being single. In fact, you could even wear glasses.” He drank more scotch from his flask. “If you change your mind about college, I can arrange for you to join the Royal Canadian Air Force.”

“No offense, sir . . .”

“Call me Bish; anyone sharing a drink with me calls me Bish.” He handed Ollie the flask.

Ollie took another drink, feeling his head begin to swim. “I’ve already delayed attending college for three years. And besides, if I were to join a foreign air corps, it would have to be the British Royal Air Force.”

“RAF . . . may I ask why?”

Ollie thought of his last conversation with his father. A wave of guilt made his eyes begin to water. “My father always told me that our family may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British.”

Bishop grinned. “I like a man with pride in his roots. You have a good father, son.”

Ollie swallowed. “Had.”

Bishop’s smile faded.

“My parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

They sat for a moment listening to the chirps of crickets hanging onto the last few days of autumn. Then Bishop pulled a business card from his pocket, wrote something on the back with a pencil, and handed it to Ollie.