Lenore grunted, her voice bitter. "Not the men."
Angela let a bit of the heat come into her words, "And maybe not the women either."
The giantess flushed at the pointed tone, but didn't back down. "But, if he's not yours..."
"He is!" Angela cut her off curtly, prepared to fight if she had to.
Marc was listening intently, ready to help, and both of them were relieved when the woman sighed resignedly.
"I've mistaken, maybe. Forgive me?"
Angela waved it away, hoping this was the end of it. "My first time in control. I overreact."
"First one's always the best. They still have a hope it will change back." Lenore grinned, clapped her on the arm again, and this time, adrenaline kept Angela on her feet.
7
Hours later, as Marc finished changing parts inside the radio, Lenore led Angela through a dark, and blanket-covered room where at least five adult women and three kids were sharing a very large bed.
As Lenore pushed open a back hallway door, she saw Angela's look and shook her head. "You're putting no one out. They sleep together for warmth now that their men is gone and the snow comes unexpected."
Angela heard and understood the tone of betrayal in Lenore's words. "The Draft?"
Lenore recognized a fellow victim. "Aye. Yours too?"
Angela's eyes were haunted. "My son. I'm on my way to get him back."
The giantess raised a surprised brow. "Just the two of you?"
"Yes. No one will keep me from my blood."
Respect laced the woman's voice. "My prayers will be with ya. Not that God listens any more now than he did before."
Angela smiled her thanks, suddenly tense as the wide bed, lit by a candle in each corner, came into view. She hid it, and closed the door with relief. A few minutes alone at last!
8
"Coming in," Marc called softly, as he stepped in and then locked the door. Dog went straight to Angie, and then began exploring the room. Covered in dust, it sported a rickety bed, one end table, a plush, dusty chair below a window, and a long, cluttered dresser with no mirror.
Marc frowned when he saw she had a row of medical supplies spread out on the dresser. "You hurt?"
Angela didn't look up from the needle she was threading. "You are."
Marc gave her a sheepish look at the dry tone and began taking off his coat and sweat-stained shirt. He tried not to wince as the cloth peeled painfully away from the wound, the blood long-dried.