“And now they are dead.”

Mary nodded. “But not forgotten. We remember them here.” She pointed discreetly. Ponter’s guards—now members of the FBI, arranged for Jock Krieger—were keeping people away from him, but the walls were long, so incredibly long, and farther down someone was leaning up against the black surface. “See that man there?” asked Mary. “He’s using a pencil and a piece of paper to make a rubbing of the name of someone he knew. He’s—well, he looks in his midfifties, no? He might have been in Vietnam himself. The name he’s copying might be that of a buddy he lost over there.”

Ponter and Mary watched silently as the man finished what he was doing. And then the man folded the piece of paper, placed it in his breast pocket, and began to speak.

Ponter shook his head slightly in confusion. He gestured at the Companion embedded in his own left forearm. “I thought you people did not have telecommunications implants.”

“We don’t,” said Mary.

“But I do not see any external receiver, any—what do you call it?—any cell phone.”

“That’s right,” said Mary, gently.

“Then who is he talking to?”

Mary lifted her shoulders slightly. “His lost comrade.”

“But that person is dead.”

“Yes.”

“One cannot talk to the dead,” said Ponter.

Mary gestured at the wall again, its obsidian surface pantomiming the sweep of her arm. “People think they can. They say they feel closest to them here.”

“Is this where the remains of the dead are stored?”

“What? No, no, no.”

“Then I—”

“It’s the names, ” said Mary, sounding somewhat exasperated. “The names. The names are here, and we connect with people through their names.”

Ponter frowned. “I—forgive me, I do not mean to be stupid. Surely that cannot be right, though. We—my people—connect through faces. There are countless people whose faces I know but whose names I have never learned. And, well, I connect with you, and although I know your name, I cannot articulate it or even think it clearly. Mare—that is the best I can do.”

“We think names are…” Mary lifted her shoulders, apparently acknowledging how ridiculous what she was saying must sound “…are magical.”

“But,” said Ponter again, “you cannot communicate with the dead.” He wasn’t trying to be stubborn; really, he wasn’t.

Mary closed her eyes for a moment, as if summoning inner strength—or, thought Ponter, as if communicating with someone somewhere else. “I know your people do not believe in an afterlife,” said Mary, at last.

“‘Afterlife,’” said Ponter, serving up the word as though it were a choice gobbet of meat. “An oxymoron.”

“Not to us,” said Mary. And then, more emphatically, “Not to me.” She looked around. At first Ponter thought it was simply an externalization of her thoughts; he presumed she was seeking some way to explain what she was feeling. But then her eyes lighted on something, and she started walking. Ponter followed her.

“Do you see these flowers?” said Mary.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“They were left here, by one of the living, for one of the dead. Somebody whose name is on this panel.” She pointed at the section of polished granite in front of her.

Mary bent low. The flowers—red roses—still had long stems, and were bundled together by string. A small card was attached to the bundle with a ribbon. “‘For Willie,’” said Mary, evidently reading from the card, “‘from his loving sister.’”

“Ah,” said Ponter, having no better response at hand.

Mary walked farther. She came to a fawn-colored sheet of paper leaning against the wall, and picked it up. “‘Dear Carl,’” she read. She paused, and searched the panel in front of her. “This must be him,” she said, reaching forward and lightly touching a name. “Carl Bowen.” She continued to look at the incised name. “This one is for you, Carl,” she said—apparently her own words, since she wasn’t looking down at the sheet. She then lowered her eyes and read aloud, starting over at the beginning:

Dear Carl—

I know I should have come here earlier. I wanted to. Honest, I did. But I didn’t know how you would take the news. I know I was your first love, and you were mine, and no summer has been as wonderful for me as that summer of ’66. I thought of you every day you were gone, and when word came that you had died, I cried and cried, and I’m crying again now as I write these words.

I don’t want you to think I ever stopped mourning you, because I didn’t. But I did go on with life. I married Bucky Samuels. Remember him? From Eastside? We’ve got two kids, both older now than you were when you died.

You wouldn’t recognize me, I don’t think. My hair has got some gray in it, which I try to hide, and I lost all my freckles long ago, but I still think of you. I love Buck very much, but I love you, too…and I know someday, we’ll see each other again.

Love forever,

Jane

“‘See each other again?’” repeated Ponter. “But he is dead.”

Mary nodded. “She means, she’ll see him when she dies, too.”

Ponter frowned. Mary walked a few steps farther along. Another letter was leaning against the wall, this one laminated in clear plastic. She picked it up. “‘Dear Frankie,’” she began. She scanned the wall in front of her. “Here he is,” she said. “Franklin T. Mullens, III.” She read the letter aloud:

Dear Frankie,

They say a parent shouldn’t outlive a child, but who expects a child to be taken when he’s only 19? I miss you every day, and so does your pa. You know him—he tries to be strong in front of me, but I hear him crying softly to this day when he thinks I’m asleep.

A mother’s job is to look after her son, and I did the best I could. But now God Himself is looking after you, and I know you are safe in his loving arms.

We will be together again, my darling son.

Love,

Ma

Ponter didn’t know what to say. The sentiments were so obviously sincere, but…but they were irrational. Couldn’t Mary see that? Couldn’t the people who wrote these letters see that?

Mary continued to read to him from letters and cards and plaques and scrolls that had been left leaning against the wall. Phrases stuck in Ponter’s mind.

“We know God is taking care of you…”

“I long for that day when we will all be together again…”

“So much forgotten / So much unsaid / But I promise to tell you all / When we meet among the dead.”

“Sleep now, beloved…”

“I look forward to when we are reunited…”

“…on that wonderful day when the Lord will reunite us in Heaven…”

“Goodbye—God be with ye!—until we meet again…”

“Take care, bro. I’ll visit you again next time I’m in D.C….”

“Rest in peace, my friend, rest in peace…”

Mary had to pause several times to wipe away tears. Ponter felt sad, too, and his eyes were likewise moist, but not, he suspected, for the same reason. “It is always hard to have a loved one die,” said Ponter.

Mary nodded slightly.

“But…” he continued, then fell silent.

“Yes?” Mary prodded.

“This memorial,” said Ponter, sweeping his arm, taking in its two great walls. “What is its purpose?”

Mary’s eyebrows climbed again. “To honor the dead.”

“Not all the dead,” said Ponter, softly. “These are only the Americans…”

“Well, yes,” said Mary. “It’s a monument to the sacrifice made by American soldiers, a way for the people of the United States to show that they appreciate them.”

“Appreciated,” said Ponter.

Mary looked confused.

“Is my translator malfunctioning?” asked Ponter. “You can appreciate—present tense—what still exists; you can only have appreciated—past tense—that which is no more.”

Mary sighed, clearly not wishing to debate the point.

“But you have not answered my question,” said Ponter, gently. “What is this memorial for? ”