My cousin Nao married a man from North Carolina. Last year, they had a baby girl in Tokyo. Which meant two grandfathers had to meet. Nao's father is my uncle Shigeru. For 38 years, he was a station master in Tokyo. In Japan, that means if a train is forty seconds late, it is your personal failure. He has worn the same watch since 1987. He sets it every morning. Tyler's father is Gerald. Retired Marine. Gunnery sergeant. Drill instructor for eleven years. He also has a watch. They do not share one word of a common language. Visiting hours at the hospital started at 7:00 a.m. At 6:45, Gerald walked into the lobby. Shigeru was already there. They looked at each other. They looked at their watches. They looked at each other again. Gerald nodded once. Shigeru bowed once. Nao says it was like watching two wolves recognize each other. In the Marine Corps, Gerald explained later, early is on time and on time is late. Shigeru said Japanese railways teach the exact same thing. They should have been enemies. They turned out to be the same man. Then the war began. Diapers. Gerald changed them like he was making a barracks bunk. Tight. Square. Corners you could bounce a quarter off. Shigeru timed him with his station watch. Forty-one seconds. The next morning, Shigeru did one. Thirty-eight. By Friday, the record was nineteen seconds, the baby was the cleanest human being in Tokyo, and Nao had banned stopwatches from the nursery. Lullabies. Gerald sang the Marines' Hymn. "From the halls of Montezuma," at a whisper, like a man trying not to wake a sleeping platoon. The baby stared at him. Wide awake. Ready to serve. Then Shigeru leaned over the crib and, in his old platform voice, said: "The doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors." She was asleep in four seconds. Gerald demanded lessons. For the rest of his visit, a retired Marine with forearms like fence posts walked the hallway at 2 a.m., whispering Japanese train announcements to a baby. "Doa ga shimarimasu." His accent could derail a train. She sleeps every time. One night, around three, Nao found them both in the nursery. Not competing. Just sitting there, each holding one of the baby's feet. Through a translation app, Gerald was telling Shigeru something. "When my son was born, I was deployed. I met him when he was seven months old. He cried when I picked him up. He didn't know who I was." Shigeru was quiet for a long time. Then he typed that in 38 years, he never made it to one of Nao's sports days. Trains do not stop for sports days. Two men who spent their whole lives being on time for everyone except their own kids. Gerald looked down at the baby. "Well," he said. "We're early this time." When Gerald flew home, Shigeru took him to Tokyo Station. His old station. He wore his old uniform. His former staff lined up on the platform. Shigeru is retired. He is not allowed to give the departure signal anymore. So he gave it from behind the yellow line. Through the window of the train, Gerald saluted. He held it until the train was gone. Now, every Sunday at exactly 7:00 a.m. Tokyo time, they video call. They hold up their watches. They nod. Gerald says, "Doa ga shimarimasu." Shigeru says, "Semper Fi." They hang up. Total call time: about forty seconds. Nao says it is the most honest conversation anyone in our family has. This spring, the baby said her first word. "Go." Gerald says it's Marine. Go, go, go. Shigeru says it's a departure signal. Nao says she was talking to the dog. Nao also says some men say "I love you." Some men show up fifteen minutes early. Her daughter has two of the second kind.