People had quit waiting for them to come down from the north. They knew that the places where the bombs had fallen were guarded like Fort Knox. Nobody got in or out.
Jim remembered the flash, the color, the rumors, the excitement of World War Two. The grim resolution of the people to buckle down and win it. Depots jammed. Kids going off to join.
But nobody went to join this war. That was funny. Somehow Jim hadn't thought of that before. None of the kids was being called up. Did they have enough men? Washington didn't say. Washington didn't say anything.
And the people didn't seem to care. That was the strange thing, when you could get your tired mind to focus on it.
The people didn't care. They were too busily occupied with the grim business of putting one foot in front of the other.
Jim got home one evening to find Myra staring dully at a small handful of ground meat. "That's a pound," she said.
Jim frowned. "What do you mean? That little bit?"
Myra nodded. "I asked for a pound of hamburger and Art put that much on the scale. In fact not even that much. It said a pound. I saw it. But there was such a little bit that he felt guilty and put some more on."
Jim turned away. "I'm not hungry anyhow," he said.