“Huh?” Russ’s focus had been on the hangar-sized doors at the end of the armory. He couldn’t decide if staring at the damn things would make the 142nd Aviation Support Battalion appear sooner or not.

The man thumbed toward Russ’s brown-and-khakis. “That’s not the sort of uniform you expect to see here.” He squinted at the MKPD shoulder badge. “Millers Kill, huh? I’m from Gloversville. We used to play you guys at b-ball. You rode us hard for the Class E championship in ’69.”

“I was on that team,” Russ said. “Class of ’70.”

“Me, too!” The man laughed. “Hair down to my nipples and a big ‘Peace Now’ headband I never took off. Who’d’a guessed I’d wind up here waiting for my girl to get back from war?” He bounced his balloon bouquet in the air.

“Yeah. Same here. Well. Not the long hair bit.” Russ clutched the green-paper-wrapped roses he’d gotten from Yarter’s. They’d looked a lot better a few hours ago. How had all those petals fallen off? “The waiting for my girl part.”

A harried-looking woman elbowed her way through the crowd, one little kid on her hip and a six- or seven-year-old dragging along in her grip. “There you are,” she said. “You would not believe how far we had to go to reach a bathroom.” She handed the little one over to the balloon man. “Go to Grandpa, now.”

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” The seven-year-old pirouetted and leaped. “I think I saw the buses!”

The balloon guy-the grandpa-nodded toward Russ. “Turns out I played basketball against this fella in high school. He’s meeting his daughter, too.”

His wife smiled at Russ, amused. “You’d better stop whacking those flowers against your leg or there won’t be anything left for your girl.”

He could feel the tips of his ears turning pink. “It’s not-I’m-” He was saved by the rumble of the buses, bumping over the slow strip into the cavernous building, a sound immediately drowned out by the roar of the waiting crowd.