The incident with the radio cast a long, subtle shadow over the following days. Arthur was neither colder nor warmer, but his instructions became more concise, his silences more observant. Eleanor's kindness remained, but it was now punctuated by curious, sidelong glances when she thought he wasn't looking. He had become a puzzle, and in a small, tightly-knit community in 1935, puzzles were either solved or discarded.
Robert, in turn, retreated further into himself. He spoke less, his answers becoming monosyllabic grunts that mirrored Arthur's. He kept his head down, his focus narrowed to the grain of the wood he was sanding, the precise angle of a dovetail joint, the simple, physical reality of the task at hand. It was a form of meditation, a way to quiet the screaming vortex of his thoughts.
But the past refused to be ignored. It found him in the small, cluttered space of Miller's General Store.
Arthur had sent him to fetch a new box of nails and a pot of linseed oil. The bell above the door jingled a cheerful, tinny sound as Robert stepped inside. The store was a dim, crowded cave of smells—of coffee beans, leather, sawdust, and the faint, sweet tang of penny candy. Shelves were stacked with canned goods, bolts of fabric, and tools. It was a museum of daily life, and he was an exhibit out of place.
He found the nails and was heading for the counter when a display of newspapers stopped him dead. The Oak Creek Gazette, dated just that morning. The headline was smaller, more local, but it struck him with the force of a physical blow.
LOCAL BOY EXCELLS: James Miller Graduates Top of His Class at West Point
Below the headline was a grainy photograph of a young man in a crisp military uniform, his face proud and earnest, his whole life ahead of him. James Miller. Robert knew the name. Not from history books, but from his own town. In his time, there was a memorial plaque in the town square, a small, weathered piece of granite listing the local boys who had fallen in World War II. The third name on that list was James Miller. Killed in Action, 1944, over the skies of Germany.
Robert stared at the youthful, hopeful face in the newspaper. This wasn't a historical figure; this was a kid from the corner store. A kid who, in a few short years, would be climbing into the cockpit of a B-17 Flying Fortress, a plane Robert had flown in a dozen different simulators. He knew the stats of the B-17 by heart. Its service ceiling, its bomb load, its vulnerable spots. He knew the terrifying success rate of the German flak guns. He knew that James Miller's proud, earnest face was already a ghost's.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. The linseed oil pot felt slippery in his hand.
"Fine boy, that Jimmy," a voice rasped beside him. Robert jumped. It was old Mr. Miller himself, the store owner, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose as he arranged a stack of canned peaches. His eyes, milky with cataracts, were fixed on the newspaper with naked pride. "Top of his class. Gonna be a general one day, mark my words. Make this whole town proud."
Robert's throat constricted. He wanted to say something, to scream, Don't let him go! Keep him here! The war is coming! But the words were ashes in his mouth. He could only manage a strangled, "Yes, sir. He looks… very capable."
"His country needs men like him," Mr. Miller said, nodding firmly. "Strong men. Good men."
His country is going to get him killed, Robert thought, the knowledge a corrosive acid in his gut. He paid for his items in a daze, the coins feeling alien and heavy in his palm. The cheerful jingle of the bell as he left sounded like a funeral dirge.
The walk back to Arthur's house was a blur. The world around him had shifted. It was no longer a quaint, historical diorama. It was a landscape of future graves. Every young man he passed on the street, laughing, tipping his hat, was a potential name on a plaque. Every puttering car was a prelude to a convoy of tanks. The peaceful hum of the town was the calm before the storm of a thousand air raid sirens.
He had known the war intellectually. Now, he felt it. It was a palpable pressure in the air, a tragedy waiting for its cue. And he was the only one in the entire audience who had read the script.
When he returned to the workshop, Arthur took one look at his face and paused in his sawing. "You alright, son? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Robert set the nails and oil on the workbench. His hands were trembling. "The… the Miller boy. From the store. He graduated from West Point."
Arthur's face softened with understanding. "Ah. Yes. Fine news. Puts things in perspective, doesn't it? A young man like that, serving his country. Makes our little fence posts and chair legs seem a bit small."
"Yes," Robert whispered, the word tasting like a betrayal. "It does."
He picked up a piece of sandpaper and turned to a rough-hewn plank, attacking it with a frantic, desperate energy. The grit scraped against the wood, a harsh, rasping sound. Each stroke was an attempt to sand away the image of that young face, to erase the echo of a future explosion, the memory of a cold, granite plaque. But it was no use. The ghost of James Miller had taken up residence in the workshop, a silent, accusing presence in the dusty air.
He was no longer just a castaway. He was a custodian of doomed futures. And the weight of that custody was a burden his calloused hands could never hope to lift. The war was no longer coming. For Robert Vale, it had already begun.