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taught him about the stars. When Ross was about six or seven, Granddad had taken him boating in Long Island Sound. It had been just the two of them in a sleek catboat. Ross had just earned his Arrow of Light badge in Cub Scouts, and Granddad wanted to celebrate. They had dined on lobster rolls, hot French fries in paper cones and root beer floats from a busy concession stand. Then they’d sailed all evening, until it was nearly dark. “Is that where heaven is?” Ross had asked him, pointing to the sparkling swath of the Milky Way.
    And Granddad had reached over, squeezed his hand and said, “Heaven’s right here, my boy. With you.”
    There was a stopover in Manas Air Base in Kyrgyzstan, where the air was cool and smelled of grass. During the three-hour wait for bags, he tried calling his grandfather, then Ivy, then his mother, with no luck, so he headed to the chow hall to get something to eat. Although it was the middle of the night, the place was bustling. Ross studied the army’s morale, welfare and recreation posters advertising sightseeing tours, golf excursions and spa services, which sounded as exotic as a glass of French brandy. Before he’d enlisted, everyday luxuries had been commonplace in his life, thanks to his grandfather. Ross was returning hardened by the things he’d seen and done. But at least he was keeping the promise he’d made to his grandfather.
    Please be okay, Granddad, he thought. Please be like a wounded soldier who gets patched up and sent back out into battle. At the next layover in Baku, Georgia, he had the urge to bolt and travel like a civilian, but he quelled the impulse and bided his time, waiting for the flight to Shannon Airport, in Ireland. He couldn’t allow himself to veer off track, not now.
    Because now, it seemed his grandfather was acting crazy, giving up on treatment and haring off after a brother he hadn’t bothered to mention before.
    During his deployment, Ross had learned a lot about saving lives—but from shrapnel wounds and traumatic amputations, not brain tumors. There was an image stuck in his head, from that last sortie. He kept thinking about the boy and the wounded old man, trapped in that house, clinging to each other. Everything had been stripped away from those two, yet they’d radiated calm. He’d never found out what became of the two villagers; follow-ups were rare.
    He wished he’d checked on them, though.

Three
    “W ell, now,” said George, buckling his seat belt. “That was exciting.”
    Claire pulled back onto the road, trying to compose herself. “I can do without that kind of excitement.” She drove slowly, with extra caution, as though a thousand eyes were watching her.
    George seemed unperturbed by the encounter with the cop. He had politely pointed out that it was a free country, and just because certain family members were worried didn’t mean any laws had been broken.
    Officer Tolley had asked a number of questions, but to Claire’s relief, most of them were directed at George. The old man’s no-nonsense replies had won the day. “Young man,” he’d said. “Much as I would enjoy being held captive by an attractive woman, it’s not the case.”
    Claire had produced her state license and nursing certificate, trying to appear bland and pleasant, an ordinary woman. She’d had plenty of practice.
    The effort must have succeeded because ultimately,the cop could find no reason to detain them. He sent them on their way with a “Have a nice day, folks.”
    “Still all right?” she asked George, spying a service station up ahead. “Want to stop here?”
    “No, thank you,” he said. “We’re nearly there, eh?”
    She indicated the gizmo on the console between them. “According to the GPS, another eleven-point-seven miles.”
    “When I was a boy,” said George, “we would take the train from Grand Central to Avalon. From there, we’d board an old rattletrap bus waiting at the station to take us up to Camp Kioga.” He