Swear to me, Arie said before heading in. If you don’t see me in twenty minutes, you’re gonna scram. Not a second past. I need you to swear it. The sternness in his eyes befitted the risks he was about to take. Mind you, those risks shouldn’t be his alone. We’d come here because of me; regardless, on this condition, he wouldn’t budge. Thus, I agreed.

Now, by the hands of my watch, only seven minutes remain, and I’m still waiting for his signal.

This morning, though begrudgingly, he booked an appointment with Mr. Brouwer. Half past two was the earliest available. To ensure a private meeting, Arie claimed to be a “potential client with sensitive matters.” Then he packed his pistol, stolen from a public bathhouse frequented by Nazi officers, I’d learned. And now I can’t shake a vision of it pressed to Brouwer’s skull, a coercive tactic if met by a refusal.

I recall the feel of that muzzle myself. Just two nights ago, before Arie knew it was me trailing him from the hospital, he’d threatened my life in similar fashion. He’d relented at my voice, but the question persists: How well do I really know him anymore? Our dynamic has changed. He’s changed. Hardened, understandably. But to what end?

Then again, my theory on the Brouwers could be mistaken. What if they’ve genuinely sided with the Reich? By now, the gun could well have been wrested away and aimed back at Arie, the police already summoned.

I stare at the space that divides the two buildings. He’d taken that route to reach the front entrance, and for an instant, I fear it’s the last I’ll see of him.

A rustling from behind spins me around. A rat. It’s foraging in a toppled barrel of trash. The rectangular loading area, hemmed in by a concrete wall, suddenly feels smaller.

Then comes a whistle. I turn. Arie is poking his head from a back door at Brouwer’s. With fedora in hand, he waves me over, a grand relief. Though what occurred inside?

I peek down the alleyway that leads to the street, where a motorcar rumbles past. I hurry across to reach Arie. “Well? What did he say?”

“Not out here.” The fact he ushers me through the door seems promising. As he shuts it behind us, I take in the warehouse that stretches to a high ceiling, where yellowish light bulbs shine from metal beams. Dominated by hammering, a pair of male voices echo through air that smells of cut lumber from the surrounding rows of crates. The containers range widely in size, the smaller ones pillared like toy blocks. The large ones are precisely what we’ll need.

“Gosh, these are perfect,” I exclaim quietly before noting Arie’s lack of enthusiasm. “What is it? Was I wrong about the Brouwers, about their betrayal?”