I run my fingernail along the edge of the playing spaces, most named after London’s sites and streets. The paper face could be removed, potentially intact, if steamed with care. But how to reattach it after? No chance rubber cement would dry smoothly enough to pass camp inspections. It would have to be engineered from scratch.

That’s when I note the maker’s name on the box. The company is not only familiar but trusted. A printer of playbills and other amusements, John Waddington Limited already produces our tricked-out cards, as well as color silk maps—the ideal kind, incidentally, to implant in the board since the fabric is thin, compactible, and safe from rustling.

I consider Hutton’s unconventional methods. And I don’t bother to call for an appointment.

***

First thing in the morning, I jump on a train headed toward the manufacturer’s headquarters in Leeds. Thanks to the company director’s recognition of my name from previous shipments, I spend the afternoon in a private room with a skilled engineer, experimenting with boards and decals and an array of escape aids. I apply knowledge from my old carpentry job, commanding a variety of tools with a steady hand for a smooth and seamless result.

By nightfall, we fashion a Monopoly set no different from any other wartime edition of the game—save for its embedded silk map, mini compass, and two files sharp enough to saw through wire.

I deliberate over involving Hutton, for fear of contributing to his stress. But denying the man a clear-cut purpose would surely be worse. For my spirits too, evidently.

When I present him with my sample the next day, spreading it over the foot of his bed, he emits delight but above all relief. He views the prototype as a sign I’m committing to his plan.

And he’s right. What he doesn’t know is that my latest nightmares, more a motivator now than a burden, solidified my choice. The enemy has never been clearer, nor has my desire to help defeat them.

“As for equipping the game,” Hutton says, shifting quickly to the practical, “might I propose a minor improvement?”

I brace against my pride. After all my hours and effort invested, it’s hard to imagine an option I haven’t explored. “Certainly.”

“I should think an innocuous tag, to denote the particular map sealed in each board, would prove useful. This would ensure the games are directed to camps in their correlating regions.”

I sweep a look over the center of the board, its contents inaccessible for our double-checking, and humility slides in. He has a fine point.