The Portland shipyard was practically deserted, most ships having departed at daybreak. The few still docked were either in for repairs or headed in the wrong direction. But Ollie found a cargo ship that was going to Halifax with a load of grain. When the deck was clear, Ollie jumped onboard, lifted a canvas cover on a lifeboat, and hid inside.

The ship’s horn blew. Ollie flinched, striking his head against the side of the boat. He felt something warm trickle down his face and realized he had reopened the gash in his head. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a sock, still fresh with the scent of his mother’s laundry detergent. He wiped his eyes and pressed the sock against his wound. Ollie felt the boat move and wondered how many hours—or days, for that matter—it would take to get to Nova Scotia. As he rocked with the waves of the open sea, Ollie curled into the nose of the lifeboat and fell asleep.

* * *

Ollie woke with a sharp pang in his head, his tongue dried like sunbaked leather. It had been at least a day since he had last eaten, maybe more. And almost as long since he had drunk anything, except for swigs of scotch from Bish’s flask, which had done nothing but suck the hydration from his body and fuel him with foolish confidence that he could safely sleep on a park bench. Fortunately, Ollie found a metal box under a pile of life jackets that was filled with survival rations, including cans of condensed milk, a jug of water, and crackers.

Unfortunately, the captain enjoyed taking his breaks behind a lifeboat that shielded the wind to light his cheap cigars. And when the captain cupped his hand over a flickering flame from his Zippo lighter, he heard the unmistakable sound of crunching saltines.

As Ollie munched into another cracker, the canvas cover ripped open. A strong hand grabbed his collar. Ollie reached for his neck to keep from choking. In an instant, he was yanked from the lifeboat and thrown onto the deck.

“Who the hell are you?” the captain shouted.

Ollie squinted from sunlight, “Ollie Evans, sir.”

“What are you doing on my ship?”

Ollie’s eyes adjusted, and he saw a barrel-chested man with gray hair thick as wire. “I’m on my way to England to join the Royal Air Force.” Ollie wiped crumbs from his face. “I’m a pilot.”

The captain looked at the battered young man, shook his head, and laughed.

Ollie stood, then noticed the sock stuck to his head. He carefully plucked the garment from his wound and stuffed it into his pocket.

“We have two punishments for stowaways.” The captain puffed on his cigar, stepped forward, and exhaled smoke into Ollie’s face.

Ollie coughed.