Bogart rises from his chair. “It appears our business for today is concluded.” He gestures toward the door, an unsubtle directive. “A secretary will escort you back down.”

But I can’t go—not yet. Not before I ask. At the anticipation of being dragged away, I cast out my question in pieces.

“Arie’s body. After the war.”

All eyes in the room stare.

“Will you bring him home? For proper burial.”

Right then, I realize why the words so fiercely resisted the path to my lips. Because once out in the world, heard and addressed, the matter solidifies the reality of his death.

The men exchange glances. At the trepidation I detect in them, as if seeking the unlucky soul to break the news, I bristle in my seat.

“He was a hero,” I remind them. Relegated to the shadows, he’ll be awarded no medals or public honors. But this they can do.

“Miss Vos…” The humoring note in Bogart’s tone only inflates my tenacity. Despite my anger toward Arie, this is about what’s just. For the sake of his parents, if no one else.

Not letting Bogart finish, I acknowledge what the panel is surely thinking. “Yes, in part he was driven by a personal cause—for which, frankly, I dare any man in this room to have acted differently. But in the end, as you well know, he was wounded securing Nel’s freedom. No doubt, in turn she’ll continue to save others, specifically including our Allied airmen.”

Bogart laces his fingers on the table, suggesting a mulling of my points. “I cannot disagree,” he replies, providing a speck of hope. “Nevertheless, while the decision of repatriation would fall to the United States government in this case, I believe it only fair to warn you that there are many service members whose remains will never be returned.”

Unsurprised by his answer, I insist, “But some will be. And with Britain’s connections and access being stronger, I’d wager your government could lend a hand if desired.”

More glances, the dread in them thickening.

“There is the rare exception,” he concedes, “but I must stress that a great number of servicemen actually prefer to be laid to rest where they sacrificed their life for their country.”

He says this as if he could possibly know what Arie would have wanted. I counter through a clamped jaw, “America is his home. And he could’ve come back to it if he’d chosen to fend for just his own interests.”

“Which is why,” Crockatt asserts gently, “he is being permitted to retain his honorable standing and, as such, will be listed as KIA.”

The acronym is appropriate. Hence, through the immeasurable moment that follows, its effect on me isn’t logical—I know this even as it’s happening—but the letters strike like daggers. They penetrate my will with the finality in their meaning: Killed in Action.