He heard the clang of a key, the squeak of iron hinges, and the shuffling of feet beside his bunk. Ollie opened his eyes. Two men stood over him: one in uniform, and the other wearing tweed trousers with suspenders, his knees bowed outward, like he was riding an invisible pony. Ollie’s suitcase hung from the man’s age-spotted hand.

“Oliver from Maine,” a scratchy voice said.

“Yes,” Ollie said, his voice sounding dry. He coughed, feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen.

“Come with me.”

Ollie slowly sat up and stood on shaky legs. He saw a soldier and was relieved to see it was not one of the men who had beaten him. The bowlegged man was short with white hair, a wrinkly face, and a pocket watch strung across his vest.

“Who are you?” Ollie asked.

“Name’s Bertie. Bertie Shepherd. I’m your employer for the next three months.”

Ollie scratched his head and looked at the soldier.

The soldier motioned with his head for Ollie to leave.

Ollie followed Bertie down the corridor, leaving the soldier behind. Outside, the sun struck Ollie’s face. He squinted and sneezed, causing a dagger of pain to pierce his ribs.

“Bless you,” Bertie said.

“Thanks.” Ollie pressed his hand to his side and followed the old man to a truck.

Bertie opened the passenger door, helped Ollie in, and tossed the suitcase behind the seat. He got into the truck and took his seat behind the wheel.

“Where are we going?” Ollie asked.

Bertie put the key in the ignition, rubbed his knees, and started the engine. “To work.”

“How did you get me out?”

Bertie hit the accelerator and honked the horn at a group of servicemen marching toward a hangar. “I talked to the commander and struck a deal to get you out.”

“Why?”

Bertie lowered his glasses and glanced at Ollie. “Because you helped my granddaughter, Susan.”

Ollie remembered the graceful woman with sandy-blond hair, the lieutenant’s hand clutching her wrist. Ollie felt his face turn hot.

Bertie gripped the wheel. “If I were a young man, I’d knock some manners into that bastard.” He looked at Ollie. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

“What’s a young man from Maine doing so far from home?”

Ollie thought of his parents, wilted flowers on their graves. “There’s nothing back there for me.”

The old man rubbed his knee.

Ollie pointed to a Hurricane fighter plane coming in for landing. “I’m a pilot. I need to get to Church Fenton to join the Eagle Squadron.”

“You can’t go for ninety days. That was the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The deal I made with Commander Davies.” Bertie turned the wheel sharply left, leaving North Weald Airfield and causing Ollie to brace himself against the dash.