They got out of the truck. Ollie unloaded the first cage.

“Not now, Oliver,” Bertie said. “We need to see who came home.”

Ollie placed the cage back onto the truck and joined them in the loft. Bertie held a small notebook and pencil. Susan checked the cubbies from left to right and from top to bottom. As Susan finished counting a row, she called out a number, which Bertie tallied in his notebook. After finishing the cubbies, Susan counted a few pigeons waddling on the floor and another fluttering around the ceiling.

“How many?” Susan asked.

“Sixty-two,” Bertie said.

Susan walked to the next loft. Bertie and Ollie followed. Driving the truck would have been quicker, but Ollie assumed that Susan had had enough of his bird skepticism or her grandfather’s driving. He hoped that it was the latter.

Ollie watched Susan and Bertie tally the birds. The cooing grew as Susan went through the cubbies.

“How many?” Susan asked.

“Sixty-four. Our total is one hundred twenty-six. We lost one.” Bertie checked his math. “Bloody hawks.”

Susan pointed to Duchess, perched on a beam above her grandfather’s head.

Bertie looked up. “Ah, one hundred twenty-seven.”

Susan smiled. “They’re all here.”

“How do they do it?” Ollie asked.

“Magic,” Bertie said, pretending to wave a wand.

Ollie chuckled.

Bertie put his arm around Susan. “My granddaughter’s the expert. Before the war, she studied zoology at the university.”

Susan glanced at a group of feeding pigeons. “Some believe they find their way home with the help of the earth’s magnetic field, the sun, and the stars.”

Ollie stepped to Susan. “What do you believe?”

She looked at Ollie. “Pigeons have extraordinary cognitive capabilities. I believe they have mental maps that enable them to return from unfamiliar places.”

Ollie scratched his head.

“Means they’re smart,” Bertie said.

“They must be incredibly intelligent,” Ollie said. “I would have needed a flight map and instruments to fly a plane here from Clacton-on-Sea.”

“The important thing is they’re all home.” Bertie looked at his pocket watch. “A blessed cause for celebration. Anyone care for a wee dram?”

Susan shook her head.

“Oliver?”

“What’s a wee damn?” Ollie asked.

Bertie laughed. “I see that Americans have yet to master the English language.” Bertie placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “It’s dram, a shot of scotch.”

Ollie thought of Bishop sharing swigs from a flask that had made his head spin, and the mess he had gotten himself into by believing he could sleep in a park. Ollie rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Maybe later.”

Bertie nodded and left for the cottage.

Susan picked up a broom and began sweeping droppings.

“Can I help?” Ollie asked.

She shook her head.

Ollie noticed a dustpan hanging from a rusted nail. He retrieved the dustpan and lowered it to a pile of droppings.

Susan swiftly brushed, carelessly flicking pellets.