"They will, Anna. I think they will, real soon. Maybe tomorrow."
"Will they?"
"Sure."
Keith Kincaid was under one of those fist-sized rocks, out in the cemetery that wasn't a cemetery—next to his wife, June Hogan, and their four kids. But Anna Kincaid didn't know that. Since the bomb, Anna hadn't known much of anything except what the old people told her, and they told her only things that would make her as happy as she could be: that Keith was in the Army, and June was off with the kids having a nice time in Knoxville; and that they'd all be back home in a day or so.
Anna never wondered about that "day or so"—she didn't remember much from day to day. Joe Kincaid sometimes said that helped a little, as much as anything could. He could tell her the same nice things every day, and her eyes would light up all over again. He spent a lot of time with her, doing that. He was pretty good at it, too ... Joe Kincaid had been Doctor Joe before the bomb. He still doctored some, when he could, but he was almost out of supplies; and what with his patients being so old, he mostly just prayed for them.
In the kitchen, Susan had lunch ready and waiting—some chicken from last night, green beans, boiled potatoes and a salad from the tiny gardens the women tended off in the weedy ground and around the bases of trees where they wouldn't be seen.
On the way in Ben had noticed that the woodbox was about empty—he'd have to bring home another bag of charcoal from the "general store"—which was Windy's barn, all braced up. Into it the old people had taken every bit of clothing, canned food, hardware, anything at all they could use in the way of housekeeping and everyday living, and there it all stood; when somebody needed something, they went and took it. Only the canned foods and tobacco and liquor were rationed. Every week or so, around midnight, Fat Sam Hogan and Dan Paray went into the big cave in Lawson's Hill, right near where the second plane had crashed, and set up a lot of small fires, back where the light wouldn't be seen; they made charcoal, and when it cooled they brought it down to the "store," for cooking and such—a charcoal fire doesn't give off much smoke.
Over coffee, Ben said, "Reckon I'll fish some this afternoon, honey. How's a cat or two for supper sound?"
"Why, goodness, Ben, not for tonight," Susan smiled. "You know tonight's the Social; me and Anna are fixing a big dinner—steaks and all the trimmings."
"Mm," Ben said, draining his cup. "Forgot today was Sunday."