Choose a star, Tom used to tell her, months and years before his mission, her head pillowed over his shoulder, both of them lying down on the back of his pick up, while his finger traced imaginary constellations for their own little world.

Choose a star, he said, and promised with a twinkle in his eye that one day, soon, soon, always so soon, he was going to go to pick it up for her, put it on a chain so she could wear it as a necklace, Orion's belt made a jewelry piece for her and only for her.

Choose a star, Tom told her before he left, helmet beneath his arm, and she kissed him, and kissed him, and tried not to cry, and she just told Tom that she didn't need Sirius nor the North Star, that the only thing she needed was for him to come back.