Outside the truck window, the trees blurred as I blinked back tears. The word Jap rang in my mind. I kept thinking of the day six years ago when Beau and I had become friends. I had found Mack Clyde holding a sack full of kittens that he planned to throw off a bridge. Scooter had pushed me down when I tried to rescue them, but just then Beau had pedaled up to us on a shiny new bike. When I told him what was going on, he promised Mack and Scooter a pound of horehound candy from his dad’s store if they’d let him have the bag of tiny, mewing fluffballs. Beau and I spent the end of the summer caring for the kittens and finding them each a home. And then, when the kittens were gone, we’d continued to get together.

I bowed my head, holding my temples and trying to get Mr. McClatchy’s ugly word out of my mind.

Why, I wondered, couldn’t Beau speak up for me the way he had for those kittens?

Charlie pulled into our driveway. The ground crunched beneath him. A dark Cadillac was already parked on the rutted dirt.

“Looks like Mr. Tanaka’s here.” Charlie shifted into park, but left the keys in the ignition. “Sam, McClatchy’s a jerk, but he’ll calm down. Just give it time.”

I nodded. But as I thought of Beau, standing behind his dad, his head hanging, I wasn’t so sure.

Warm air and the sound of rapid Japanese engulfed us as we entered the house. A fire blazed in the parlor, where Dad and Mr. Tanaka were joined by Mr. Omura, a wide-faced man in an elegant three-piece suit. Mr. Omura and his wife lived on the other side of the orchard. He owned the Japanese bank. He owned the orchard, too, but for years, he’d let it grow free, leaving its cherries and apples to kids and the birds.

Seeing Dad with the other men, I realized how gray his hair had gone in the last year. He was thinner, too, than the last time the three men had sat around the coffee table, as they had so many times before Okaasan’s death, back when Dad still laughed.

But besides Dad, everything looked the same. The oil lamp twinkled on the table. Next to the sofa, the mahogany console radio played softly, its brass knobs winking. Only the men’s solemn faces and rigid posture betrayed that this wasn’t a social call. That and the low, round voice of a newscaster thrumming from the radio, just loud enough for me to catch the words airplanes, civilians, and fatalities.

Mr. Tanaka leaned forward on the rocking chair as he spoke in Japanese. “Surely, Omura-san, they wouldn’t suspect us of treason solely because of our race!”

Sitting next to Dad on the sofa, Mr. Omura shook his head. “But Mr. Roosevelt must enter the war,” he said, also in Japanese, his words fast and thick with fear. “Japanese Americans will be caught in the middle. And the agent asked about us. We are ‘suspects.’ ” He said the last word in English.

“Suspects?” I mouthed to Charlie. His face was solemn.

“They’re being cautious,” Mr. Tanaka said. “They can’t really think we would take Japan’s side.” He leaned farther forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Take me, for example. I’ve lived here three times as long as I lived in Japan. My son was born here.”

Mr. Omura shook his head. “But already, I’ve heard rumors. My friend from Seattle telephoned. He said the FBI took his neighbor. They didn’t even allow him to change out of his bathrobe.”

“They’re arresting Japanese?” I asked, my higher voice and English words crashing like cold water over the men’s conversation. All three turned.

Mr. Tanaka pushed his glasses up his nose. “We still know very little,” he said, his low Japanese calmer than seemed reasonable.

I imagined how Charlie and I must look, standing in the doorway, mouths open, eyes wide. But how could there already be arrests? It had been only hours since the attack—even less since the radio announcement.

Dad cleared his throat. “Hiro and Kiki are in the kitchen. Please join them.”

Charlie gave Dad a look, but Dad only rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. Charlie put his hand on my shoulder.

I wanted to stay and hear more. But the men were silent, obviously waiting for us to leave. I followed Charlie across the entryway and into the kitchen. There Hiro and Kiki sat across from each other at the table, hunched over a tin of senbei and the kitchen radio. Hiro was absorbed in the news, but Kiki, who was facing the door, looked up. Her shoulders lifted and fell as she took a deep breath. Relief, then irritation flitted across her face.

“The public of Honolulu has been advised to keep in their homes,” the radio announcer said, his voice crisp and deep. “There has been …” Scratchy static sounds scrambled the announcer’s words. Hiro adjusted a knob, and the radio cleared. “We cannot estimate just how much damage has been done, but it has been a very severe attack.”

“It’s inconceivable,” Charlie said, walking up behind Hiro.

Hiro swung around and stood. He held his hand out to Charlie, and they locked hands for a brief moment. Then Hiro turned to me. “Kiki said Charlie went to get you over an hour ago. Glad you’re safe,” he said. I nodded, feeling a self-consciousness that surprised me.

“When did you get here?” Charlie asked. I took a seat next to Kiki.

“About half an hour ago.” Hiro turned the radio lower and leaned forward. “We were at the ferry, picking up a load for the Merc. That’s when we heard.” He closed his eyes. “The ferry captain put the radio on the loudspeaker, and everyone—the ferry workers, the people waiting to get on, everyone—we all stopped and listened. Minutes later, these men came and told everyone they weren’t going to relaunch.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Then they singled Dad and me out and told us we weren’t allowed to pick up our goods.”

Charlie frowned. My own mouth tightened. In my mind, I saw Mr. Tanaka and Hiro, standing all alone in a sea of unfriendly faces.

“But they let everyone else?” Kiki asked.

“We were the only Japanese.”

Charlie splayed his mismatched hands on the table, his tendons set in hard ridges. Next to me, Kiki shook her head.

“When we got home,” Hiro said, “we got a call from John Allred.” Mr. Allred, Ruth’s father, worked for the town as an assessor. “He wasn’t supposed to call, but he’s too decent not to. He told us an agent from the FBI called and asked him a bunch of questions.” Hiro’s voice got low. “Asked him to prepare a list of home addresses for all the Japanese on the island.”

I let out an involuntary yelp. Charlie swore under his breath.

Hiro hesitated. “The agent also asked who might have extra influence on the Japanese community—bankers, priests, teachers.” He grimaced. “Shopkeepers. Landowners.”

A chill spread over the room. My mind raced. All the men sitting in our parlor would be on that list.

“What will they do with the information?” I asked. None of this made sense. What did a bombing in Hawaii have to do with anything on Linley?

Kiki’s eyes narrowed. “They must just be gathering information—right?”

Hiro shrugged. “I have no idea. But Mr. Allred said he vouched for us, told them we were all good, hardworking citizens.”

“All right, you’re right. Of course.” Dad’s harried Japanese rang through the entry, and seconds later, he, Mr. Omura, and Mr. Tanaka stood in the kitchen doorway. Mr. Omura scowled, and Dad looked irritated but resigned.

Hiro snapped the radio off, and Dad cleared his throat. “Sam, build up the fire in the stove. Charlie, the fire in the parlor is already going. Go up to my room. Bring down any Japanese books. And Kiki, go to the attic. Get the letterbox and the family albums.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to put his orders together.

Dad sighed. “Mr. Omura recommends ridding our house of anything that might tie us to Japan—in case we’re searched by officials.”

“You want us to burn our things?” My voice came out sharper than I intended—I sounded more like Kiki than myself. But the photo albums—Okaasan’s albums. He couldn’t mean to burn them.

Kiki scowled. “Why would we be searched? We’re …” She stumbled over her words. “I mean, look, we’re not like some of the really Japanese families—” She stopped, glancing over at Mr. Omura.

Everyone stared at her, and she blushed.

“I just mean we’re more American.” Her chin jutted forward.

“Go,” Dad said.

Kiki reddened further as she tripped past Hiro. I stood to tend to the fire. Its coals already glowed hot, but Dad wanted flames.

Only Charlie didn’t move. “This is—” His hands shook. “It’s not fair.” Charlie turned to Mr. Tanaka. “Don’t they have to have evidence before they arrest us?” Charlie’s voice quavered. “And wouldn’t they have to prove it at a trial?”

Mr. Tanaka pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s what the Constitution says,” he answered in English. “But Mr. Omura has convinced your father that there’s danger.”

Dad nodded. “It’s better not to give them any reason … We can’t be split up.”

Charlie shook his head but stalked up to Dad’s room.

My mind raced through the albums Dad had ordered Kiki to fetch. The first few pages of one album held Okaasan’s only photographs of her family, of herself as a child. Another held a photo of Okaasan’s home in southern Japan, taken just weeks before she boarded the ship that brought her to America. How could Dad ask us to burn these last bits of her story?

When Kiki’s steps creaked on the stairs, I worked up my courage. “Dad?” My voice trembled. “Dad, the albums—we aren’t going to burn everything, are we?”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Samantha.”

Mr. Omura gave me a gentle look. In Japanese, he explained, “You should get rid of anything that makes your family appear sympathetic to Japan.”

I nodded. “Wakarimashita,” I said. I understand. I switched back to English. “But, Dad, the pictures of Okaasan … Couldn’t we”—I swallowed, but I knew I’d regret it forever if I didn’t try—“couldn’t we hide those photos?”

I braced myself, sure Dad would yell at me next. But when I looked into his eyes, they glistened. “Where would you hide them?”

Kiki entered the room, carrying the letterbox on top of several leather-bound albums. Her cheeks flamed, but she held herself straight.

I thought hard. “There’s a dead tree in the orchard, with a rotted hollow. If we take the photos out of the albums, they ought to fit.” I remembered the orchard was Mr. Omura’s. “If that’s okay with you, sir,” I added in Japanese.

Mr. Omura hesitated, studying my face, then Kiki’s. He nodded. “It’s risky. But the orchard is open to everyone.”

Uncertainty crossed Dad’s face as Kiki set the albums on the table. She lifted a cover, and the black-paged album fell open to a photo of Okaasan as a young woman. It was the picture she’d sent to my dad when their marriage had been arranged.

Dad stared at the photograph. Okaasan wore a flowered kimono. Her face was younger and lighter than I remembered, her expression serious, as if she knew she was taking on an entirely new life.

Dad swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”