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made the task all the more challenging. From behind thin walls Mr. Boyle ranted as usual about his support of the IRA and the Sinn Féin party, but not seeing Michael Collins as the savior every Irishman was making him out to be. Mrs. Boyle’s urgings that he hush down were nearly as loud as his objections to doing any such thing.
    Suddenly, the knob of the apartment door creaked above Shan, and he scurried to his feet. Doc O’Halloran emerged with his bag in one hand and a jelly jar in the other. While he was more of the sherry-drinking type, he always accepted the moonshine with grace, not one to insult a man’s form of payment.
    “You take care of your uncle, now.”
    “I’ll do my best.”
    “Good lad.” The doctor gave a thoughtful look before continuing on his way.
    Shan never did learn what was said behind that door. Yet two nights later, after returning home from a pub show that paid a shilling, Uncle Will stared out the window in silence. He finished two cigarettes, one right after the other, filling the air with as much smoke as tension. Then without turning from his reflection, he said to Shan, “We’ll be going to America.”

6
    T he weeks following Uncle Will’s decision to move halfway across the world passed like a ride on a runaway horse. A bewildering blur of thrills and uncertainty. A forward charge with no time to rest. And if given a chance, you’d find yourself asking: What in God’s holy name have I done?
    For Shan, that feeling came as clear as day on the morning of their departure. He had just entered Mr. Maguire’s shop when the realization that the visit would be his last struck with the force of a broad-knuckled punch. While the store’s sweets and records had initially lured him in, it was the Maguires who had truly drawn him back time and again. Although his conversations with the couple rarely surpassed light chatter, a sense of deep care had grown beneath their words, even in the quiet that lay between them. Maybe there most of all.
    In light of this, he anticipated a heartfelt parting. On the contrary, in a level tone Mr. Maguire simply wished him a blessed journey, then without so much as a handshake he hurried off to handle inventory.
    Shan stood there in silence.
    “Now, now, don’t be taking that to heart.” Mrs. Maguire gently smiled. “Just needs a moment to himself.”
    When understanding set in, that Shan wasn’t the only one feeling the blow of parting ways, he nodded.
    “Truth be told, we couldn’t be happier for you, Shanley Keagan. And we know you’ll make us proud.” Mrs. Maguire’s eyes grew watery above her rounded cheeks. “Off you go now, or you’ll miss your grand adventure.”
    The couple had never had children, which likely explained why her hug right then had a genuine but unpracticed feel. Then again, Shan’s memory of his mam’s made all others fall short.
    He gratefully accepted a small bundle from Mrs. Maguire—biscuits, tea, and toffees for the trip—and left to meet his uncle. Shan refrained from taking a backward glance at the store for fear of changing his mind, as if that were an option. Their flat had been rented out, and every belonging he and Uncle Will could spare had been sold to help pay for their fare. The rest had been raised from Shan’s daily shows, on streets and in pubs all over town, sometimes four a day, and from sales of his uncle’s moonshine. The result was an extra bit of savings to be used for resettlement, to give them a decent start. Unfortunately, without a drop to drink Uncle Will’s mood soured further.
    Once they’d boarded the ship, this was just one reason Shan avoided their assigned room. A greater deterrent was the stench of sweat, feces, and vomit on the third-class level, now beyond overcrowded. A steamer from Italy on its way to New York had a pipe burst, and a chunk of its travelers were moved onto Shan’s passenger ship. The buckets of waste were dumped out on a regular basis, yet there was no