The first time his eyes fluttered open, Sina said, “What year is it, dear?”

“1945,” he muttered.

“Good. Go back to sleep,” she cooed.

Then half an hour later when he hadn’t awoken naturally, Sina pinched him gently until he did and asked, “Who is prime minister?”

“William Lyon Mackenzie King,” said Flying Bob.

This was repeated several times over a couple of hours.

Sina must have been very tired, because the fourth time this question was asked and answered her mind strayed and she asked, “Don’t you really think he would look better with a mustache?”

“Whah?” said Flying Bob.

“Like Mussolini and Hitler,” Sina said, and began to get worked up as she always did when she got on this subject. “Don’t you think we’d be better off with a, well, a fiercer-looking prime minister?”

“Huh?” Flying Bob said, staring at her in disbelief. “Are you some kind of angel?”

“I’m an ordinary Canadian citizen,” said Sina. “Questioning my leader’s grooming choices. I mean, would it hurt him to grow his facial hair just a little? Because it’s really a kind of male attribute signaling that the male in question has the proper amount of testosterone, and how can we know that if he insists on going around baby-faced? It’s embarrassing, and I mean not just on a national but on an international level. On the international circuit! I wouldn’t be surprised if those Italians don’t go around laughing at our soldiers and calling them those sissy Canadians with their hairless leader!”

“Sina,” hissed Old Tom from the hallway. “Hush!”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Xnay on the iatribeday.”

“Well, I’m just saying,” said Sina, folding her arms in front of her chest and lapsing into silence.

Flying Bob gave her one last confused stare before drifting back into unconsciousness, but for many years afterward he talked about the angel who thought the prime minister should try to look a little more like Hitler.

People just thought he was mad.

All night Old Tom and Sina and I stayed awake. Even if we didn’t have Flying Bob to attend to, I doubted any of us could have slept. Ironically, the Maddens, who had instigated all this commotion, slept like babies. Although, to be fair, that was probably the aftereffects of the gas.

Finally, just faintly, in early morning, the darkness began to lift. It was that filtering light before the sun rises in a rosy blast over the horizon and sends a path of sparkles across the sea.

“Come on,” said Old Tom, beckoning to me from the doorway as Flying Bob snored. “Let’s see if we can get to the hermit’s cabin without the soldiers seeing us. The hermit said he would try to land on the water there at first light.”

“Oh, Tom, you can’t take Franny,” said Sina.