“If you should change your mind about school, here is a way to join either the Canadian or British air force,” Bishop said, breaking the silence. “I happen to do a little recruiting for the Royal Canadian Air Force; the address for our headquarters in New York is printed on the front. I wrote on the back the name of a man I know in London who is working on establishing an American fighter squadron for the RAF. All you would need to do is make your way to London. No guarantees, but I’ll make sure your name is on a list, Ollieeeee . . .”

“Evans.”

“The rest would be up to you, Ollie Evans.”

“Thanks for the offer, and the drink, but I’m leaving for Worcester in the morning.”

The sound of the twin engines drowned their voices. Ollie shook Bishop’s hand and accompanied him to the plane.

“Good luck to you, Ollie.” Bishop climbed the steps of the plane, his crew already loaded and waiting for him.

“Bishop!” Ollie shouted, the scotch overcoming his shyness.

He turned at the top of the stairs.

“Why did you fly a cardboard plane off your parents’ house?”

Bishop smiled, suddenly looking older in the shadows of night. A man, probably in his mid-forties, aged by the stress of war. “Because, my good man. I was born to fly.” He entered the plane and shut the cabin door.

Ollie felt a blast of wind from the propellers. A whiff of aviation fuel filled his nostrils. He watched the plane accelerate down the runway, fly into the night, and disappear into the stars.

The mechanic who had been working on the plane approached Ollie. “Do you know who that was?” He wiped grease from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

Ollie scratched his head. “His name was Bishop.”

“That was Billy Bishop, air marshal for the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was coming in from Nova Scotia. I heard the pilot say that Bishop had just met with Winston Churchill. And now he’s on his way to a secret meeting with Roosevelt. Can you believe that? They’re setting up a pilot recruiting office in New York; Bishop is gonna try to get the FBI to turn a blind eye to the US Neutrality Act.” The mechanic nudged Ollie’s arm. “What did he say to you?”

“We just talked about flying.” Ollie picked up his suitcase and left.

Ollie made his way to the train station, but the gate was locked. Realizing he would have to wait until morning for the station to open, he found a park bench and sat down. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a bearded man rummaging in a garbage can. Ollie watched the man pick something out, brush it off, and put it in his mouth. He wondered if the man was just a casualty of the Depression or if he had been injured like his father and had the course of his life changed. Unable to stand by and watch him rummage through fly-infested food, Ollie reached into his pocket and took out some change. As he approached, the bearded man raised an empty milk bottle. Ollie slowly held up his hands, kneeled, and placed the change on the sidewalk.