The summer he turned eight, Will grew two inches, and it gave him an unfair advantage when it came to running. Finn was still lithe and quick, a fleet-footed little fox of a boy, but Will’s legs were longer now, and as they neared the old barn, and the hitching post that was their finish line, Will pulled ahead the last fraction and slapped the cross piece of the post first.
“Damn!” Finn said with a laugh.
“Damn,” Will agreed, surprised by his own sudden speed.
Both of their mothers would have swatted their backsides if they’d heard them curse. But out here, two hundred yards from the house, they were free. The old barn belonged to them; it kept all their secrets from mothers’ judgmental ears.
Finn let his legs give out and flopped down onto the grass, spread-eagle and staring up at the sky, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
Will stretched out beside him, fighting his own lungs. He loved the rush of running for all he was worth, the way it tasted when he breathed through his mouth and sucked in huge gulps of air, legs and chest burning. Adrenaline, his father called it. It was sweet as candy.
Overhead, the clouds tumbled in lazy formations, fat and white. Will thought one looked like a dragon, its jaws open, forelegs extended.
Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. The grass tickled at Will’s skin and began to itch; he smelled earth and green things, and the faint musty inside of the barn behind them. Inside, his father had set up a tire swing, and it awaited their pleasure, whenever they felt like picking themselves up.
Beside him, Finn took a deep breath and let it back out in a rush. “Mama’s gonna have another baby,” he said, like it was the end of the world. He already had two sisters. “It’s gonna be another girl, I know it.”
“Maybe not,” Will said, soothingly. But a part of him hoped it was. His own brother had died three weeks before he was due; he remembered, vaguely, the tiny coffin they’d buried at the funeral, the way it was no bigger than a shoe box. And so maybe it was selfish, but he was an only child, and he lived in constant fear that the oh-so-fertile Mrs. Murdoch would pop out a little brother for Finn and that Finn would turn his back on Will. He knew that would never happen – heknew; they werebest friends– but it kept him up sometimes at night.
“I just can’t take all the crying,” Finn complained. “Lisa just stopped crying,finally, and now there’ll be another one. I don’t want it!” he said, flinging his arms toward the sky in supplication.
“Maybe this one won’t cry.”
“Theyallcry. It’s what babiesdo.”
Will didn’t know what babies did. The only ones he’d ever been around were Finn’s sisters, and that was only for brief spells, Mrs. Murdoch telling them to go play outside and not be loud. Most days, they played at Will’s house, where it was always quiet and there were never-ending adventures to be had in the woods and fields surrounding it.
“Hey.” Finn rolled toward him, propped up on an elbow.
Will mirrored him, so they lay face-to-face.
Finn dug around in his pocket until he came out with something slender and silver, which he laid on the grass between them. It was a collapsible pocket knife, with wood detailing on the handle. With one small, deft hand, Finn opened it, the blade flashing smooth and silver in the sunlight.
It was the best thing Will had ever seen.
“Oh, wow,” Will breathed, hand hovering over the shiny wonder.
“You can touch it, I don’t mind.”
Will slid a careful fingertip down the flat of the blade, frowning at the smudge he left behind. “Where’d you get it?”
“Dad,” Finn said, voice taking on that unsure quality it adopted whenever he talked about his father. “He said he carried it in the war.”
Will touched the carved handle with total reverence. “Wow,” he said again.
When he glanced up, Finn was smiling at him.
September, 1942
Finn’s father was a stern, joyless man, found often in his favorite chair by the fire, a glass with an inch of amber liquid in it always within reach. He didn’t read, didn’t listen to the radio; he sat, and he stared out the window, and every so often he’d bark orders at Finn’s mother.
His name was Elias Murdoch, and his first wife had died of pneumonia while he was serving in the Great War. He’d come home missing his right leg from the just below the knee, and he’d had no wife to hold and comfort him, to assure him that she still loved him. His son – Finn’s half-brother James – was sent off to boarding school until Elias had things sorted. He’d finally married Julia, Finn’s mother, and begun the business of procreation with no visible happiness or desire.
James was fighting on the Eastern Front, and Elias sat in his chair, and Finn was the only vibrant male presence in the Murdoch household.
“I want to go and fight,” Finn confessed one afternoon as they did their algebra homework at the Murdoch kitchen table. He bounced the newest baby, Lillian, on his knee and tapped his pencil against his open book with his free hand. His brown eyes had that faraway look in them, the one that meant he was off on the battlefield in his head, romantic and swaggering with his helmet and rifle. “It’s not fair that James gets to go, and I have to be here.” He shot a resentful look toward the baby.
Under the table, his other two sisters were playing an elaborate game that involved marbles and a toy china tea set, whispering to each other. One of them bumped into Will’s shin.
