"Uh-huh. Where you from? Not around here, I know."
"Far back as I can remember, Oregon has been home."
It wasn't hard to guess why he was almost a thousand miles from home. During the war, over ten million American families had been separated, their way of life destroyed by the hell of atomic bombings. Ever since its end, people had been seeking their loved ones; many, only to find them dead or dying. Sometimes the searches stretched across continents or oceans. In that respect the boy sitting opposite me was no different from hundreds of others I've seen in the past ten years. The only difference was in his face.
"Looking for your family," I said, making it a statement.
"Yessir." He smiled, as though the sentence had double meaning.
After he had eaten, he went down to the town store to look through its records. They all do. They turn the pages of the big stopover book, hoping a relative or friend had passed through the same town. Then they sign the book, put down the date and where they're headed, and set out once more. Almost all towns have stopover books nowadays, and a good thing, too. They helped me find Marty back in '63, when the truce was finally signed. In fact, I found her right here in this town. We got married, settled down, and haven't been more than a hundred miles away since then.
Martha called me into the kitchen almost as soon as he was gone. "He's a nice boy."
"That he is," I agreed. "You know, I've been thinking; we could use a young fella around here to help with the work."
"If he'll stay. There was something in his eyes; a sort of longing for someone very close to him. That kind usually takes off after a night's rest."
"I know. Guess I'll drop by the store; see if I can talk him into staying."