“How”—Hank struggled to phrase the burning question in every mind—“how authentic is it, Doug?” He realized, as he spoke, he needn’t have doubted any longer. Doug McVeigh was stone grim, for all the ease with which he spoke, waved, nodded. He was using every ounce of his Scotch steel to hold himself that way: easy-seeming.
McVeigh glanced around, waited for a half-dozen new arrivals. “This is it, folks. A very large flight of long-range bombers is somewhere over Canada, right now.”
A woman began to cry audibly.
“No time for that!” McVeigh said shortly. “Get going, everybody!”
“Thank God we’re only a Class-Two Target Area,” a man beside Henry said. Henry raised his voice. “Who’s for South School? Henry Conner here. Need fast transportation!”
“Come on, Hank.” Luke Walters ran through the growing crowd in the lobby. “Mollie and I were notified at the store.”
Hank was driven from the school yard toward Willowgrove at breakneck speed, in spite of Mrs. Walters’s angry protests, by the excited owner of Green Prairie’s largest stationery store.
“What about your clerks?” Henry asked.
“Eh?” Luke was somewhat deaf.
“In your store? The clerks? They okay?”