Ollie found a public restroom near Longfellow Square, and although the door was locked, he located a window that was unlatched. He crawled inside and fell to the floor, the tile cold against his hands. Pulling a string hanging from a light fixture in the ceiling, he looked in the mirror and wished he had left the light off. A large gash had split a groove into his forehead, just below the hairline. Dried blood covered the left side of his face and had dripped down his neck like hardened wax, dyeing the collar of his white shirt crimson. He turned on the water, washed his face, and scrubbed the stains from his shirt, until only a pink hue remained. He combed his hair with his fingers and thought that he could use some stitches. But he had no time and, more importantly, no money.

At the station, Ollie joined the crowd of people gathering for the train to Boston, most of whom had their heads buried in the morning newspaper. He tried to sell his watch to buy a ticket; with no interested buyers, he resorted to trying to hock his suitcase. But everyone was consumed with the paper, even annoyed when he interrupted their reading to display how well the spring latches still worked on his tattered case.

A whistle blew, and the train crawled to a stop, its wheels screeching over the rails. The engine hissed, the doors slid open, and the crowd entered, one by one, until the landing was empty. Except for Ollie.

The doors closed, the train inched forward, and Ollie watched his future disappear down the tracks. As he stood alone, trying to figure out a plan to make some money for the afternoon train, a breeze blew a crumpled newspaper to his feet. He picked it up, curious to know what had captured everyone’s attention. He stared at the headline: Bombing of London Lasts All Night! Nazis Hurl 1,000 Planes! Each word of the article, in particular the mounting death toll, made Ollie’s anger build, causing his head to throb. Dropping the paper, he reached into his pocket and removed the card Bishop had given him. It simply read Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York, New York. No name. No number. And on the back, scribbled in pencil, Charles Sweeny, London.

Ollie rubbed his aching head and noticed the gash was sticky. He looked at the blood on his fingers and thought of his father. Our family may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British. Ollie left the train station, not bothering to check the time for the next train.