Sensing that Susan and Bertie needed time alone, Ollie went to work. First, he stacked the military cages, making certain that they were evenly distributed at each of the lofts. For the remainder of the afternoon, he refilled water trays, carried bags of feed, and swept droppings. After tending to the last loft, he leaned his broom in the corner, near a sleeping pigeon, its head tucked under its wing.

Ollie gently stroked the pigeon. “Get some rest. Your mission is tomorrow.” He left the loft hoping it would be one of the lucky ones to return.

Outside, the air was cold. Ollie rubbed the goose bumps on his arms and noticed that the leaves on an oak tree were turning the color of mustard. He looked at the sun, sinking on the horizon, and wondered if Luftwaffe pilots were stirring in their bunks, like nocturnal vampires preparing for their feast. Too bad the Nazis aren’t vampires, Ollie thought. At least with vampires, they could be deterred with holy water, crosses, and cloves of garlic. But with Nazis, we need antiaircraft guns, Hurricanes, and Spitfires. Ollie glanced back at the lofts. And maybe pigeons.

Inside the cottage, Ollie found Bertie in his chair. He glanced at the man’s knees, wrapped in cold towels. “How’re the legs?” Ollie asked.

“A wee gravely,” Bertie said.

“Need anything?”

Bertie shook his head.

Ollie paused, then asked, “What was your friend William like?”

“A good man. Loved racing pigeons as much as me. We used to place bets, usually a pint at the pub, on who had the fastest bird. Despite having to buy most of the ale, William never missed a race.” Bertie rubbed his knees and changed the subject. “How are the lofts?”

“Cages are stacked. Lofts are cleaned.”

“Splendid.”

Ollie turned to a collection of old pipes displayed on the fireplace mantel.

“Antiques,” Bertie said. “Agnes liked to buy them for me. More for looking than for smoking.”

“Your wife?” Ollie asked, picking up a pipe.

Bertie nodded.

“What was she like?”

A smile spread across Bertie’s face. “Lovely. Smart. Witty. A lot like Susan. I met Agnes as a young lad. She worked the counter at her father’s bakery. Spent all my shillings on her pastries, simply to get a glimpse of her. Nearly gained enough weight to bust out of my trousers before I got up the nerve to invite her for tea.” Bertie patted his tummy.

Ollie chuckled.

“She was wonderful. And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.”

“Sounds like you had a good life together.”

“Indeed.”

Ollie recalled the photo in his bedroom, the one of Bertie, Agnes, and a young couple holding a baby. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

Bertie lowered his glasses, a glisten of water in his eyes. “I simply outlived her, my boy.”