Things didn't change right away, of course. If life was like a fairy tale, Charlie would have appeared at the breakfast table the next morning, fully dressed and chipper as can be - and maybe with his injuries miraculously healed. But Kit didn't believe in fairy tales any more (not much, anyway). And she knew that any change in Charlie would be enacted by Charlie himself, and by the passage of time. But, when Kit bounded down the attic stairs a few days later, she found Charlie standing in his door waiting for her. "Hey, Squirt," he called.

She looked him up and down. "For your information, Charles Jackson Kittredge," she said haughtily, "I go by Margaret now."

"I'm sure you do, Squirt." The corners of his mouth twitched into the ghost of an actual smile.

She sighed. "Will you please at least call me Kit?" she asked, resigned.

"Fair enough, Kit." She wasn't mistaken - he did look happy. "Look, I need your help, all right?"

"What can I do?"

Charlie glanced towards the stairs. "I think today is the day."

Kit grinned. "Ooh, I just knew today was going to be special. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not really sure," Charlie admitted. "I haven't figured out down yet. Will you at least pick me up if I go hind end over teakettle?"

"Absolutely." She kept pace with him as he approached the top of the stairs. "Where's Mom and Dad?"

Charlie knew what she was really saying: why didn't you ask them for help? "Well," he said, "Dad needs to fix things. This, I need to work out for myself. And Mom: she'll feel sorry."

"Poor Mom," Kit said. Actually, she still felt a tiny bit badly for Charlie, but as per her agreement, she kept it under her hat. "Ready?"

"Ready." It took them a few tries to work out the mechanics: after a few steps, the crutches were abandoned, and Kit carried them under one arm as Charlie leaned on her shoulder and the banister. By the time they reached the bottom, they were both sweaty and slightly breathless, and they'd raised such a racket Kit was surprised Mother, Dad, and all the boarders hadn't come running.

From the other side of the swinging door, Mother's voice was cheery. "Good morning, Miss Huddleston! Pass the coffee?"

Kit helped her brother steady himself as he fitted the crutches under his arms. "Hey, we did it, Squirt," he said.

"Margaret."

"We did it, Kit. You ready to go in there?"

"I really have to get to work," Kit apologized. "Mr. Gibson will have my head on a platter."

"But you haven't had your breakfast," Charlie objected, "and it's the most important meal of the day."

"You sound like a poster," Kit teased. " 'Oatmeal For Victory!' I usually just grab a slice of toast and eat it on the run. News moves fast, you know."

"Well, come on, then," Charlie urged. Kit pushed open the door and Charlie made his way through it, to the delighted squeals and shouts of the family and boarders. In the clamor Kit pocketed a boiled egg and a few slices of toast; as she was about to slip away unnoticed, Charlie caught her eye and winked at her.

Kit froze on the stairs. The piano hadn't been played in so long she'd almost forgotten what it sounded like. Charlie didn't see her as his fingers idly drifted over the keys, which were horribly out of tune. Kit held her breath as he picked out a few lines of one song, then another.

"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag," Charlie sang suddenly, his voice a mocking imitation of joy, "and smile, boys, smile." Then there was a terrible bang as he slammed the lid of the instrument shut.

"Mail call, Squirt?"

"Aunt Millie sends her love," Kit replied, ignoring the hated nickname. "She's saving her gas rations for a visit. Here - you can read it for yourself."

Charlie took the letter from Kit's outstretched hand. "What else?"

"How do you know there's something else?"

"You have a certain air of expectation," Charlie grinned.

"Gibb - Mr. Gibson gave me two tickets for the Reds game," Kit blurted. "I did him a favor, and that's how he paid me back."

"And?"

"Come with me, Charlie," Kit pleaded. "It's been so long since we've been to a baseball game together. So long."

Charlie's face clouded over almost immediately. "I'd rather not," he said. "I have no intention of making a spectacle of myself."

"Maybe you'll feel differently when you've got your new leg," Kit suggested.

"Heaven only knows when that will be," Charlie said bitterly. "Probably not until the war is over."

"It'll end soon," Kit soothed. "It has to."

"That's what I thought in '42."

Kit could see that the conversation was shutting down fast. "Please?" she begged. "We'll take a streetcar to Crosley Field. I'm dying to go."

"You don't understand," Charlie argued. "People will stare."

"They won't," Kit argued. "I promise they won't."

"We'll see."

Charlie choked on his coffee. "You're wearing that?"

A purple polka-dotted blouse and a red plaid skirt. Violently argyle socks with one saddle-shoe and one rubber boot. A bilious green flowered scarf and to top it all off, a discarded hat of Aunt Millie's crowned with enormous yellow flowers and, inexplicably, a sequined bunch of grapes. "I told you," Kit said quite calmly, "no one will stare at you."

Charlie looked at her strangely, and not because of her outfit. "When did you stop being my kid sister?"

"You've been gone a long time," Kit said simply. "Ready to go?"

Charlie stared a moment longer. "Hand me my crutches," he said at last.