Wistful images of Ollie’s parents filled his head. He took a deep breath, then said, “My father always said that we may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British.”

Bertie smiled, his pipe clasped between molars.

“Finish your stew,” Susan said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Ollie stuck his spoon into his bowl and hit something hard, like the shell of a walnut. He raised the spoon to his mouth and stopped. A clam. Jaws wide open, sticking out its snout-like tongue.

“Cockles are not much meat, I’m afraid,” Susan said. “More for flavoring.”

Ollie’s mouth began to water.

“Damn rationing,” Bertie said.

Ollie’s mouth tingled. His lips felt swollen.

Bertie put down his pipe. “Are you all right?”

“I’m allergic to shellfish.” Ollie’s stomach gurgled.

Susan covered her mouth.

Ollie felt another slosh in his stomach, moving lower, as if he had chugged a gallon of pickling juice. He quickly excused himself from the table.

Through the kitchen window, Susan and Bertie watched Ollie run to the loo.

Ollie threw open the door and was greeted by the smell of earth and ammonia. He pulled at the button on his trousers. His bowels growled. He tugged harder, squeezing his bum, praying he could hold a few more seconds. The button snapped. He ripped down his trousers. And nature let loose.

“Are you all right?” Susan called from the garden.

“Yes.” Ollie’s voice sounded like he was sealed in a pine box.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He could see Susan’s skirt through a small crack in the door. Even though he was certain that she could not see him, he covered himself with his hands.

“Can I get you anything?”

His intestines felt like a knotted rubber hose used in a tug-of-war contest. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Susan turned and went inside the cottage.

Ollie rubbed his swollen belly. His guts cramped. And then it came. First, as a low growl. Not from him. Outside. Hairs stood on his arms. A siren grew louder, higher in pitch, piercing the walls of the loo as if it were made of rice paper. The siren faded, and repeated the cycle again and again, each time growing in crescendo.

“We’ll be in the shelter!” Bertie shouted. “Bastards came early!”

He saw Susan and Bertie through a crack in the wallboards, making their way to an earthen mound.

“Please hurry!” Susan shouted.

Ollie’s breathing quickened. His bowels contracted. And exploding antiaircraft fire shook the ground. Ollie flinched. He braced his hands against the wall. A splinter shot into his finger. The loo rattled.