It didn't. Gurley went for the boy first, taking the wire clippers to the cord that held his arm fast to the balloon. The boy shrieked as the arm fell free, all wrong, as loose and slack as a piece of rope. Even without the glasses, I could see it bend in too many places. Lily lowered the binoculars and looked at me in pain. The gun had left a jagged cut that climbed her cheek, a crease of dirt and blood.

Gurley pulled the boy free of the balloon and laid him down. He seemed to be examining the boy, then working on the arm. The boy writhed, Gurley calmed him, the boy writhed again, and finally Gurley stopped what he was doing. He scooped the boy up in his arms, an act which made the boy shrink in size even more. It was hard to believe we'd ever taken him for a man. As Gurley walked toward us, we could see him try to take on a face he felt appropriate to the act-a sympathetic warrior, the soldier with a heart. But Gurley was so consumed with perfecting his walk that he wasn't paying enough attention to how he carried the boy, who was screaming in pain, shattering whatever pacific image Gurley was trying to project. By the time they reached us, Gurley's lips were drawn tight and he was sweating. I could tell he was angry furious, and I wasn't sure at whom: me? Lily? Probably the boy for spoiling the show. I was angry because Gurley had managed to leave the defusing task to me.

Gurley set him down gently enough. Lily's hands flew about the boy, not quite touching him, as if she didn't know where to start. Finally, she went to his face and ran two fingers along his cheek. The boy interrupted his crying to study her.

Gurley called me aside, and I tried to anticipate what he was going to say. “Shall we detonate the remaining explosives, sir?”

“What?” Gurley said, watching Lily watch the boy.

“The balloon?” I said. “Clear it?” I looked around. “Not that anyone would ever come across those bombs out here, but-still. Should I save the balloon?”

“Yes,” said Gurley, still not looking at me.

“But blow the explosives?”

“Yes,” Gurley said.

“Or disarm them?”

“Yes,” he said again, kneeling now behind Lily, almost as if he were hiding from the boy.

“Sir?” I asked again.

Gurley twisted around. “Goddammit, Belk.”

“But-sir?”

“Leave the balloon be, and get the damn medical kit out of the boat.” He turned back to the boy. “Jesus. The fiends.” He put a hand on Lily's back. “Lily,” he said. “Fiends.”

We didn't have much of a medical kit. Some bandages, antiseptic, a syringe, and a precious vial of morphine. When I returned, I saw that Gurley had broken off a thin alder branch to use as a kind of splint for the arm. He was standing now, hands on hips, surveying the scene.

“Lily,” he said. “Dearest.”

Gurley looked at me briefly, and then back to Lily.

“Lily,” he repeated, but she wouldn't turn around, so he turned to me. Nodding to the boy, he drew a finger across his throat, trying- unsuccessfully-to appear remorseful as he did. Then he spoke up again. “I think-I think we're too late, Lily. I'd like to help, but- maybe if we'd caught him… sooner. Maybe if-maybe if they'd never launched him in that damn balloon.” He looked at me, and then off at the crash site.

“Go,” Lily said quietly, so quietly the word didn't seem to come from her; it was as if it had welled up from the earth or seeped out of the boy. She turned, then stood and stared at Gurley and me. “If you want to leave, leave. Both of you. Leave the kit, and leave us.”

Gurley clapped a hand on my back. “Of course we won't leave you,” he said. “But Lily, he's done-I mean, he's not going to make it.”

Lily looked at me.

“Just a broken arm, Captain?” I said. “We can probably figure out a way to-get him back to-get him somewhere.” I could tell by Lily's face that I was wrong, but I couldn't figure out why. “That splint there,” I said, mostly to have something to say.

“You can splint his arm all you like, Sergeant,” Gurley said. “But you can't splint what's not there.” He walked over and stood above the boy, who had begun to cry again. Or rather, his face looked like he was screaming, but nothing was coming out, not really. Every now and then, a note or two of his high horrible moan would break through, but otherwise, it was just hiss and breath. I went over to the boy and knelt. Like Lily, I found my hands floating above him, unable to find a place or reason to touch him. I was no judge of kids then-I was a kid-and so I couldn't tell you his age, only that I knew he was younger than he looked. His face was chapped and creased, burned by the sun and wind. If you studied just the wrinkles around his eyes, you might have taken him for a dwarf grandparent. But if you looked at his eyes, if you looked at what soft, smooth stretches of skin remained, here and there, along his scalp, under his chin-you could tell he was a child. Eight or nine or seven: however old you have to be to find yourself in a balloon floating across the Pacific, or lying on wet ground, hurt, so far from home, and no one like your parents anywhere near.

He was wearing khaki coveralls; they'd been labeled with a number and several Japanese characters on his chest. He had on several pairs of socks, but not shoes. I looked at the arm. It was more than broken. Mangled. Maybe Gurley was right. Splinting wouldn't help. The boy suddenly broke out of his silent screaming and shouted something at me in a high voice. He lifted his head as best he could and looked down at the arm. I did, too, following the arm and his gaze all the way down to his hand, or where his hand should have been. Instead, there was a giant, bloody ball of bandages-someone's socks, perhaps a torn piece of a shirt-none of it quite adding up to the tourniquet Gurley must have intended. But even the mound of bandages couldn't hide the fact that most, or all, of the hand was missing. I turned quickly to Lily and the boy shrieked.

“He-he lost-” Lily said, and knelt beside the boy once more. She laid a hand on his good arm and he quieted.

“Blew off his damn hand when he was trying to get out, must have,” Gurley said. “Probably just one of those little squibs that helps control altitude, but still-big enough. He's lost a lot of blood. He's going to lose more.” Gurley broke off, looked back toward the boat. “There are other problems,” he finished.

“Just leave,” Lily said. “And there will be no problems.”

Gurley put on a thin smile. “You make a fine nurse, dear, but no soldier. I don't want to say it, but it's true: it would have been better if he'd died when he landed. Now, it would have been even better if he'd never found his way into the balloon, but once he had, it would have been better if everything had proceeded to-the Japs' admittedly sick- plan. Because-here we are, he's in pain, he's dying, and even if he did live long enough for us to get him to-where? The corner hospital?”

“Bethel,” Lily said.

“Bethel,” Gurley repeated. “Okay, we get him to Bethel, and then what, Sergeant?”

“Transport to Anchorage?” I said.

“No, you foolish boy. Think. We bring a child into Bethel, a Japanese one, no less, one who, by all appearances, has flown here in a balloon, and what happens?” Gurley looked at us. Lily turned away. “All hell breaks loose. The entire United States Army descends on the tundra to find all the other Jap miscreants who've flown here in balloons.”

“There aren't others,” Lily said quietly, and looked at me.

“There's one other,” Gurley said, “out here somewhere. Remember? Or did you lie about that, too? The rapist?”

“He's not-” Lily began. “Here. That man is not out here. I know.”

“You know because of your hocus-pocus Eskimo magic, or are you just saying this so I'll give up?” Gurley said, and looked around. “Or do you want me to believe that this little boy is your Saburo? Because the lad didn't mention you. All I got was some claptrap about his parents. Apologies, regrets, sorry, sorry, and so on.” He studied the boy like he was something he'd found washed up on the beach. “He's some sort of weird experiment, I figure. Who knows? In any case, he's not the point end of an invasion force. But-”