Read Chapter 4: Concrete Introductions

The Saturday morning fog rolled off the Thames in thick grey ribbons, and Maggie pressed her face to the train window as it clattered toward Woolwich, watching the familiar shapes of London dissolve into something more industrial, more raw. She had told her mother she was visiting a friend from the WVS. It was not entirely a lie. Elsie *was* a friend, and Maggie *would* see her—after the demonstration, if there was time.

The letter from Thomas had been folded and unfolded so many times in the past week that the creases had gone soft, nearly transparent. She knew the words by heart. *Come and see what I actually do. It might make more sense than my explanations.* It had seemed reckless to accept. Now, standing on the platform of Woolwich Arsenal station, surrounded by men in uniform and women with ration books clutched to their chests, recklessness felt like the only honest thing she had done in months.

She spotted him before he spotted her. He stood by the ticket barrier, taller than she remembered, in a thick khaki pullover and trousers smudged with grease. His hair was dark and unruly, as if he had been running his hands through it all morning. When his eyes found hers, he smiled—a real smile, not the polite one he had worn in the shelter—and something in Maggie's chest loosened.

"Miss Hollis," he said, extending his hand. "You came."

"I said I would, Mr. Reid."

"Thomas, please." His grip was warm and firm. "I wasn't sure you would. Most people don't want to see what I do."

"Most people haven't watched a ceiling collapse on them and survived," Maggie said. "I'm harder to frighten now."

He laughed, and the sound was unexpected—bright and boyish in a way that didn't match the steel in his shoulders. "Fair enough. Come on, it's a short walk."

The demonstration was held in a cleared warehouse near the arsenal, its windows blacked out with heavy curtains. Inside, a crowd of perhaps forty people—military men, civil defence officers, a few curious civilians—stood in loose clusters around a raised platform. At its centre lay a defused German bomb, its casing split open like a dark metal fruit to reveal a tangle of wires and mechanisms.

Maggie had seen bombs before. She had heard them fall, felt the ground shake, counted the seconds between the whistle and the blast. But she had never seen one this close. It was smaller than she had imagined, sleeker. The evil of it felt disproportionate to its size.

Thomas led her to a spot near the front, then stepped onto the platform. A military officer introduced him as Lieutenant Thomas Reid of the Royal Engineers, Bomb Disposal Unit, and the crowd applauded. Thomas ducked his head, almost bashful, then began to speak.

He talked about fuses and timers, about the difference between a Type 17 and a Type 50, about the patience required to listen for the faint ticking that meant a bomb was live. He demonstrated with a model, his hands moving with a surgeon's precision. Maggie watched his fingers trace the wires, and she found herself holding her breath without meaning to.

"Every bomb is a different conversation," Thomas said, looking out at the crowd. "You can't rush it. You can't bully it into compliance. You have to understand what it wants, and then convince it that it doesn't need to have its way."

A murmur of laughter rippled through the audience. Maggie smiled.

After the demonstration, the crowd dispersed into smaller groups. Maggie hovered near the edge, unsure whether she was meant to stay or go. Thomas caught her eye and waved her over, and she crossed the warehouse floor to where he stood beside a long wooden table littered with tools and diagrams.

"Sorry," he said, rolling down his sleeves. "I get a bit technical. My commanding officer says I forget my audience."

"I understood more than I expected," Maggie said. "The bit about the conversation—that made sense. It's like talking someone down from a ledge."

Thomas's eyebrows rose. "That's exactly it. I've never heard anyone put it that way before." He paused, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather notebook. "Here. This is what I do when I'm not talking to bombs."

Maggie took it carefully. The cover was worn smooth, the pages soft with age and handling. She opened it to find page after page of pencil drawings—not technical diagrams, but houses. A terraced row with a small garden. A cottage with a pitched roof and climbing roses sketched at the base of the walls. A larger family home with sash windows and a porch that looked made for reading in the summer rain.

"You drew these?" she asked.

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes. It's a bit silly, I know. But when the war ends, I want to build things instead of dismantling them. Houses. Real structures that people can live in and love and grow old in." He looked down at the notebook in her hands, and his voice softened. "I've been sketching the same designs since I was eighteen. Adding details, changing the rooflines, imagining the families."

Maggie turned to a page showing a kitchen with a wide hearth and a long wooden table. In the margin, Thomas had written a single word: *home*. She felt her throat tighten.

"They're beautiful," she said. "Not silly at all."

He met her eyes, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Then Thomas reached for the notebook, and his fingers brushed hers. Maggie did not pull away.

"The demonstrations help," he said, sliding the notebook back into his pocket. "They make me feel like I'm doing something useful, preparing for the future instead of just surviving the present."

"Is that what this is?" Maggie asked. "Surviving?"

Thomas was quiet for a long moment. "My brother—Arthur—he joined the Royal Navy in '39. He was on the HMS *Firedrake*, out in the Atlantic." He paused. "We got word last month. His ship was torpedoed. They're not sure if he made it to a lifeboat or not. Officially, he's listed as missing in action."

Maggie's chest tightened. "Thomas, I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "The not knowing is the worst part. I keep thinking about what I'd say to him if he came back. All the things I never said when I had the chance." He exhaled slowly, forcing a smile. "So yes. I build houses in my notebook. I plan for a future where I have a door to open, a roof to fix, a brother to argue with. It keeps me going."

Maggie thought of her own father, of the arguments echoing through the thin walls of their flat. She thought of Toronto, of an ocean between her and the life she was building. "I understand," she said quietly. "Planning for something better—it's how you keep the darkness out."

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression. "Exactly," he said. "You get it. I don't know how you get it, but you do."

A whistle sounded from across the warehouse, and Thomas flinched. "The all-clear," he muttered, but he did not move. He was still looking at her, as if trying to memorize something.

"I should go," Maggie said. "My mother thinks I'm visiting a friend."

"Will you visit her next Saturday too?"

Maggie blinked. "What?"

Thomas smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. "There's a tea shop in Camden I've been meaning to try. They say the tea's not even rationed if you know the right people." He paused. "Unless you'd rather not. I'd understand."

But Maggie was already shaking her head, a smile pulling at her lips. "I'd like that, Thomas. Very much."

He nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Then I'll write to you. Properly this time, with a date and a street name."

Maggie turned to go, and then stopped. "Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"The ship you mentioned—the *Firedrake*." She hesitated. "There was a locket donated to the shelter. A soldier's photograph inside. The name '*Firedrake*' was written on the back."

Thomas went still. "What did the soldier look like?"

"I don't know—I haven't opened it. I've been trying to find the woman who lost it." Maggie watched his face carefully. "Should I?"

Thomas took a long breath, and when he spoke, his voice was low. "Arthur had a sweetheart. A girl named Sylvia from Hoxton. He gave her a locket before he shipped out, with his photograph inside." He looked at her with something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. "If it's his—if it's hers—I need to know."

Maggie felt the weight of the locket in her coat pocket, as if it had grown heavier. "I'll bring it next Saturday," she said.

Thomas nodded slowly. "Then I'll bring answers."