The thing that none of them had realized was that once Charlie had gotten up the stairs, he had no intention of coming down again. Mother brought him food on trays, which he barely touched, and wore a more and more strained expression as the weeks wore on. Kit went to work every morning and came home every night and barely saw him. And anyway, she had plenty to keep her mind occupied with her work. She had the sense that the war was winding down; that the hard times which had distinguished so much of her young life might finally be coming to an end. And then, when she'd stand in the newspaper offices and breathe in the smell of ink and relish the sound of typewriters clacking merrily away - she'd remember Roger, entombed in his ship at the bottom of the Pacific. Stirling, with whom she'd lost a precious friendship. And Charlie, cloistered in his second-floor bedroom, the sound of crutches on the floor occasionally coming from behind the closed door. And then Kit would feel guilty for feeling so happy.

"In my time," Dad said one night when all the boarders had gone to bed, "they called it 'shell-shock.'"

"I got a pamphlet from the Red Cross when I was downtown," Kit said, "but it didn't really help."

"I don't remember it being like this when you came home from the war," Mrs. Kittredge put in.

"True," Jack conceded, "but then, I had a wife and baby son to look after. And I wasn't wounded. Not that it matters all that much - I saw men who didn't have a scratch on them who..." His voice trailed off. "Who were never the same again."

"He lost his leg," Kit said. "Isn't that enough?"

"The war to end all wars," Dad said with sudden passion. "That's what they called it the last time around. And we all went marching off to fight the Kaiser. We somehow had this idea that if we did it, our sons wouldn't have to. Look where that got the world."

"Jack," Mrs. Kittredge warned.

"What do we do?" Kit asked. "I can't keep ignoring the problem forever."

"We wait," Dad said simply.

One night Kit woke up in her attic bedroom and couldn't fall asleep again. She laid in her bed in the alcove, looking up through the leafy branches at the stars for the longest time, and then she rose. Driven by a force she couldn't quite explain, Kit slipped into her wrapper and went down the stairs. A sliver of light under Charlie's door confirmed what she had suspected - he wasn't asleep either - but her hand was arrested mid-knock. She slipped down to the kitchen and knocked on his door ten minutes later, balancing two cups of tea in her other hand.

"Who is it?"

"It's me," Kit said, feeling rather foolish. "I can't sleep."

A heavy sigh huffed on the other side of the door, followed by the familiar clumping of one foot and crutches. "All right," he said, swinging open the door. "You can come in, I guess."

"I made us some tea," Kit said helpfully. She was surprised to find him fully dressed. "There's no sugar, though. Mom would kill me - we have to save our ration for the boarders. I've gotten used to taking it without."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Charlie said, sinking into the old wicker chair with a fleeting expression of pain. Kit handed him a cup and saucer and perched on the edge of the bed, since there was nowhere else to sit. She looked around the room: it was strangely neat, considering that Charlie'd always been sloppy. Must be the military discipline. There were a few bottles of pills and a stack of books piled on the nightstand - and, of course, the crutches which were now leaning in the corner - but otherwise it could have been anyone's room. There wasn't a single photograph, letter, or memento in the room to indicate that Charlie Kittredge spent twenty-three hours a day within its confines.

Kit took a genteel sip. Mrs. Howard would be so proud. "You're going to have to come downstairs eventually, you know."

Charlie snorted. "Mother put you up to this?"

"No," Kit replied, stung. "I told you, I couldn't sleep."

"Sure." Charlie set down his cup a little too loudly on its saucer.

Kit leaned forward. "Look," she said. "I missed you when you were gone, Charlie." He looked away from her, and out the darkened window. "But the thing is… I still miss you. I mean, we're here under the same roof - in the same room, even - but you're not really here. And you know, in a way, that's almost harder."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, all right?" Charlie retorted, not sounding like he was sorry in the least. "I'm sorry that I can't be different. I'm sorry I can't be what you and Mom and Dad and everyone wants me to be. This is how things are now and we can't change it."

Kit smiled faintly. "You know, that's the most words you've spoken to me since you've been home."

"You don't understand."

"I don't," Kit conceded. "But, you know it hasn't all been fun and games around here, either."

"I'm sure it's been really hard not having any sugar for your tea."

"That's not fair and you know it," Kit declared passionately. "It's been so much more. Rationing, and watching all my friends go off to war. Worrying when there's no letter and worrying when there is. Dreading the telegram, a strange car in the driveway, a knock at the door. And…" Kit looked down at her hands. "And Roger."

Charlie set his teacup down gently on its saucer. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean…"

"Make you a deal," Kit said suddenly. "I won't feel sorry for you if you won't feel sorry for me."

Charlie stuck out his hand. "Shake on it," he said.