Music is "Forget" by Marina and the Diamonds.

Picture is Grant Barnes.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Farewell

{September 11, 2001 -- Seventeen Years Ago}

N E W Y O R K

I drive to the Barnes' house in Brooklyn like my life depends on it. Because it does, but it's not just my life that hangs in the balance. It's the life of the little boy in the back seat. Time is of the essence. I have to grab what I need from the house, then head for the Canadian boarder. I have a contact in Saratoga Springs, a private pilot, who I can hire to take us across the national lines. By the time word gets out about who I am and who I have with me, it will be too late. By then, the little boy and I will be on a flight from Montreal to London.

I park the car parallel to the street, outside the house. Though slightly frazzled, I pick up the little boy from the back seat and carry him into the house. I put him in Marilyn's chair and turn on the small television. Once I have it set on morning cartoons, he zones out and sits still.

I take the stairs to the second floor two-by-two, knowing I have to take only what I can personally carry. There are so many memories in this house. This is the place I've lived in for decades, when I was in the country and living on my own. I pass the first door, Rose's old room, the second, Steve's bedroom, and the third, my old room. The fourth and final bedroom, the master bedroom, is my target.

The door opens quickly, and I don't spare another moment before shoving a spare pair of clothes into a suitcase on wheels. I don't pack more than a second pair of everything. Once we get to London, or to France after that, I'll throw them out anyway. A new home and identity means a new wardrobe. I won't waste valuable space on clothes.

My hands grab sentimental things first, things that can fit into a suitcase. A small plague of the SHIELD eagle for my work on getting it started in the 50s, a file of articles I wrote for The Daily Telegraph in the 90s, a tassel from my graduation cap after completing a degree in journalism in the 70s, a portfolio of ticket stubs and photographs from my decade of travel with the Dugans in the 80s. I shove multiple, thin photo albums from before the War on top, filling every available space with something else: framed pictures of my parents; wedding pictures of Rose and Dum Dum, Peggy and Daniel, and Howard and Maria; my favorite pictures of Steve and Bucky before the War.

I take out three, sealable plastic bags. Moving into the walk-in closet, I pull three pieces of clothing from a sealed, glass container at the very back. One is the light blue dress I wore in Lamia when I was married, the second is the traditional gown that I would have worn, and the last is the Lady Liberty uniform I spent most of the second World War in. Each of them has lasted the test of time, just like me. Once they go in the suitcase, I snap it closed and move on to the backpack.

In it, I shove my emergency stash of money--bills from America, England, and many other countries--a burner phone with Rose, Peggy, and a few other contacts inside, and my passport. In a pocket easily accessible, I put my .22 pistol and .44 glock, along with extra clips and rounds. My bowstaff, SHIELD badge, and a sheathed dagger go on top, being the easiest to grab. I'm not sure what kind of obstacles I'll face on the way out of the country, but one thing is for sure: I'm ready for anything.

Everything else is replaceable. I slip my backpack over my arms and grab the suitcase. The Korean boy is still watching cartoons where I left him. I grab a box of pop-tarts for the road, knowing we're both starving. With one hand on the handle of the suitcase and the other pulling the child into my arms, I give one last glance over the house my family's lived in for decades.

This is the home we built, and now I might have to leave it forever.

Tears fill my eyes as I close the door behind me, locking it for who knows how long. I load the car once again and hand the toddler an opened pop-tart. As he starts to dig in, I pull back onto the street, heading for the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. It would be shorter to go through Manhattan and the Bronx instead of through Staten Island and New Jersey, but the terror attacks of this morning have most of those roads blocked off by police, debris, or traffic. From there, I'll take I-287 into I-87.

I glance over my shoulder as the Bridge comes into view. After eating two or three pop-tarts, the little Korean boy has curled up with my jacket, sound asleep. I breathe a sigh of relief. He's safe. We're safe. We're almost through this.

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S A R A T O G A S P R I N G S

On the way, I get word over the radio that American and Canadian airspace is closed to civilian flights. I pull over half-way between Albany and Round Lake, forcing myself to calm down and breathe easily. The little boy is still asleep in the back seat, oblivious to the huge problem we've just encountered.

Multiple options cross my mind. I can't go back; I've already taken an illegal immigrant from U.S. government custody. I can't get a flight from Montreal, like originally planned, because they're grounded. The only flights allowed out of the country will be government flights. I can't call Peggy for help because she's probably the one looking for me. I can't call the Kingsman directly; I don't have their number since the one thing I forgot to pack in my haste was the suit Galahad gifted me.

A terribly dangerous thought occurs to me, one that makes me grip the steering wheel tighter. I have a SHIELD badge in my pocket that's tied to my identity. As far as the world is concerned, Imogene Dugan is a SHIELD agent. I can use that to my advantage, maybe board a boat on the coast to get to England. It will be dangerous, probably take a lot longer than a flight, but nothing is more dangerous than staying here.

When we get to Saratoga Springs, I call the private pilot I've used before on the burner phone. I still need to get to Canada, just a different part. I tell the pilot to chart a course for Halifax, Nova Scotia, and we come to an agreement on payment. We get to the private airfield. I explain the little boy's presence as best I can.

"Who's the sleepy munchkin?" he asks casually, getting the two-engine plane started.

I hold the child in one arm, resting him on my hip as I throw my backpack into the cabin. "He's my...nephew. I'm taking him back to Halifax, to his mother."

The pilot nods, taking the cash payment I offer him. "Yeah, I bet you won't get a flight out of Brooklyn right now. What's his name?"

I pause, hiding my face as I haul the suitcase into the cabin. I don't know this little boy's name. I've tried to ask him, but he never answers. It makes me wonder if he even had one, or if he knew it at all. In that warehouse in Manhattan, as an illegal immigrant, he may have not had his parents with him.

I glance down at his little, sleeping face. If I'm going to all this trouble to get him to safety, then I need something to call him. Several ideas flicker across my mind, but only one makes any sort of sense.

"Grant," I tell the pilot, brushing dark hair out of the little boy's eyes. "His uncle's middle name."

"Your husband?"

I chuckle softly, turning to the pilot with a shake of my head. "My brother."

The pilot nods, then places his hands on his hips. "You should know that this is pretty illegal. American and Canadian airspace is still closed, and you're going over national boarders without going through proper channels. We could get into a lot of trouble."

I nod, hopping into the cabin. "I know."

"This must be some nephew if you're willing to risk all that for him." He gestures tot he cabin. "All aboard. One flight to Halifax, comin' right up."

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H A L I F A X

The flight takes less than an hour to get from Saratoga Springs to Halifax. When we land, I hand the pilot a cash tip for his courage and confidentiality. With luggage in hand and Grant on my hip, I hail a cab to the docks. From there, I purchase two tickets on a small passenger vessel set for Galway, Ireland, all the while keeping my SHIELD badge firmly in my jacket pocket.

"Your boat departs at eight," the lady at the desk informs me. "Boarding starts an hour before."

My eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. Right now, it's six-thirty. I thank the woman, take our tickets, and turn towards the cafeteria in the center of the complex. At this hour, there are few people in the area. Everyone is waiting for their boarding calls. Ours doesn't start for another half-hour, which is just enough time to grab a proper bite to eat.

I put the suitcase under one of the diner tables, putting the backpack beside it. As I sit down, I gently shake Grant awake. His head lifts from the crook of my neck, looking up at me with sleepy eyes.

"Hello, there," I whisper, pulling the pocket-translator from my jacket pocket. I ask him if he's hungry, and the device translates it. Grant nods, and I smile at him.

Since there are only a handful of restaurants in the docking complex, our options are limited. When I ask him what looks good, he points to the sweet-smelling bakery across the aisle. Even though it's not the healthiest of foods, especially for a toddler, I don't deny him a milkshake and hot pretzel. After all we've been through today, I'd say we've earned it.

I giggle at his face when he bites into the large pretzel, seeing his dark eyes widen in surprise. "It's good, isn't it?" I say into the translator. When he hears it said in Korean, he nods fervently and takes another big bite. "Attaboy."

Grant's gestures and facial expressions get even more hilarious when he takes a big sip of his milkshake. If cartoons could come to life, I'd be certain that Grant was one. He drinks the cold treat as he stares at the space around me, watching the people with the curiosity that comes with all children. I'd nearly forgotten how entertaining they can be. They're unapologetic and unashamed about everything. There's a purity to Grant that I'd all but forgotten.

As we finish our meal, the first boarding call for our boat is announced over the radio. We discard our trash, and even though Grant can walk, I pick him up when he reaches both arms up, balling his fists in a pick-me-up gesture.

"Olla!" he exclaims in a childish voice. The words are foreign to me, sounding like "Oo-la," but I don't need a translator to tell me what he means.

I scoop him up. He wraps his arms around my neck, nestling into my arms. I haven't held a child this small since Winnie and Denis Dugan were small, besides the one time I held Howard's son Tony at his christening in 1970. Holding Grant seems like the physical embodiment of hope, of second chances, of a new life.

Before we board the boat, I stop by the gift shop and purchase two of everything for Grant and I: T-shirts, sweatpants, and hoodies. I thought we'd have a long plane-ride to England, not a several-stop boat-ride. I only packed one day's worth of clothing for me, and nothing for Grant. If we're going to be on that boat for three to four days, we're going to want a fresh change of clothes.

We make our way, luggage in tow, to the passenger boat. Our trip is supposed to last just a few days, but it's still longer than I originally thought. Grant looks at the water as we board. I'm not sure what he's gone through in his few, short years on this Earth, but something tells me that this is the first time he's been allowed to see the ocean.

The ship starts pulling out of the port as the clock strikes eight. The sun is setting over the horizon, sending beams of lavender and magenta light over the water. Grant leans his head against my shoulder, and I tighten my arm around him.

I came to this country on a boat as a ten-year-old immigrant. I remember holding my mother's hand as the boat made it's way to Ellis Island. I recall seeing the Statue of Liberty as we passed, and I knew that this was going to be a new start to a new life. Little did I know what was ahead. The good, the bad, the ugly: it was worth it all.

I came to America on a boat, so I guess it's only fitting that that's how I leave it.

END TWENTY-ONE: Farewell.