“So my advice, girlfriend, is just do whatever you had planned to do today. Then come in for your regular schedule. It’s going to be a long day.”
Local Time 0624 Hours
After a quick shower instead of the bath she craved-with a house full of teens, hot water would be at a premium-Megan dressed, prayed for Goose, and went into the kitchen. She’d planned to make breakfast at home this morning, and she didn’t want to change that. With everything else that had gone awry in the world, she needed simple household chores as a touchstone.
“Hey, Mrs. G.” Gangly Brian Wright sat at the kitchen table with a PSP in his hands. He was thirteen and obsessed with video games. A mop of brown hair hung in his eyes.
He was a recent addition to the Gander home, brought in from his parents’ house only a few days ago. His dad was in eastern Europe at the moment, and his mom-one of the best women Megan had known-had disappeared in the rapture.
Brian had lived on his own for weeks. Megan had organized a search for children of military families who lived off-post. The provost marshal’s office had put the search teams together. They had most of the families squared away now, but new ones still came in every now and again.
“Good morning, Brian,” Megan said. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some.” Brian’s fingers flew across the video game. He was ADHD, and Megan knew he often didn’t sleep well.
“Want to help me with breakfast?” Megan went to the pantry and peered in. Thankfully the military was bankrolling all the homes at this point. Especially the ones that had taken in stray teens whose families had gone missing.
“Girls’ work,” Brian replied scornfully.
“I’ll keep that in mind when it’s time to wash dishes and take out the trash. Even boys can do manual labor like that.”
Brian sighed theatrically. “Man, you’re tough.”
“Yep. Just be glad I don’t make you salute or drop and give me fifty every time you don’t ‘ma’am’ me.”
Brian paused his game and gazed at her. “Are you kidding me?”
“About the salute, the fifty, and the ‘ma’am-ing,’ sure. About having a choice between helping make breakfast or cleaning up after it, no.”
“The most I know about breakfast is pouring it out of a box and adding milk.”
That, Megan lamented, seemed to be the case with most of the kids she’d come in contact with. She took a magnetic Post-it pad from the front of the refrigerator, wrote COOKING LESSONS on it, and put it back.
“‘Cooking lessons’?” Brian asked. “For me?”
“For all of you. I’m quite sure the commissary could use the help, and you guys could definitely use lessons that will make you more autonomous.”
“What’s autonomous?”
“It means self-sufficient. Able to take care of your own needs.”
Megan took loaves of French bread from the pantry, cinnamon and powdered sugar from the spice rack, milk and eggs from the refrigerator, and sausage links from the freezer. “How do French toast and eggs sound this morning?”
“Great.”
“Good. Let’s try to keep the mess to a minimum.”
Local Time 0632 Hours
Preparing breakfast relaxed Megan as it always did. There was something about the simple task of making a meal for someone else to enjoy-although making breakfast for nearly thirty people was by no means simple-that grounded her. It was mindless labor, a series of movements that had been perfected over seventeen years of being a wife and mom.
God, thank You for this work right now. I don’t know how I’d keep it together if I didn’t have it.
As the kitchen filled with breakfast smells, teenagers started to pour from the bedrooms and game room like zombies in a horror film. Most of them weren’t verbally social in the mornings, but they liked to be around each other.
A few of the girls stepped in to help with the cooking. As they came on board, Megan fired up extra burners as well as three electric hot plates. Within minutes, the extra laborers had been absorbed into the process, and French toast started to pile up. That also signaled the feeding frenzy. Syrup flowed and smothered plates of powdered French toast.
Megan poured whole packages of sausage links into quart-size Dutch ovens full of water, brought them to a boil, and fished the sausages out. That way there wasn’t as much grease. Then she dumped the water and started all over.
“Everyone knows you have school today, right?” Megan asked.
A collective groan swelled up from the group.
“That’s what I thought,” Megan said. “Since this is Monday, a new chores list has gone up. Check it before you leave.”
That drew forth another groan.
The negative response actually made Megan feel better. If the teens were feeling good enough to complain about school and chores, they were getting closer to normal. At least, as normal as the world would ever be again.
For seven short years, Megan reminded herself. She looked around the group, suddenly realizing that Joey wasn’t among them. A wave of guilt washed over her. She was constantly overlooking him these days, it seemed, and she didn’t know why that was.
“Is Joey still asleep?” Megan asked.
The five boys who currently sacked out in Joey’s room shook their heads. “He wasn’t there when I got up, Mrs. G.,” one of them said.
“He was watching television this morning,” Snake said. He was the skater boy who’d turned up a few days ago. He still hadn’t told Megan what his real name was, and he didn’t have any ID on him. She was going to have to do some kind of paperwork on him eventually.
“Watching television?” Megan repeated.
“Yeah.” Snake shoved a triangle of syrup-covered French toast into his mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed. Syrup ran down his chin, and he wiped it away on a sleeve.
“Ewww,” one of the girls said. “Maybe you want to chew your food next time.”
“What?” Snake asked in honest puzzlement.
“Joey,” Megan reminded.
Snake focused on her and nodded. “Yeah. Joey. Television.”
“What was he watching?”
“Surfing. Caught a little of the news. Saw a piece on there about your husband.”
Megan’s heart raced. She forced herself to be calm. “What about my husband?”
“He was in some kind of battle over there.” Snake shrugged.
One of the girls smacked Snake on the back of the head.
“Hey,” he protested.
“Maybe you could tell her what it said about her husband,” the girl said icily.
“He’s fine. He was running a supply route. Took some fire. They killed the bad guys. End of story.”
Megan breathed a sigh of relief, but she added another nugget of information to her cache about Snake. He was relaxed with the military-speak. Either he was a gamer or he had a parent involved in the armed forces.
“Probably catch it later, too,” Snake said. “That hot chick on OneWorld was covering the story.”
“We don’t refer to women as ‘hot chicks’ in my house,” Megan said.
“Yeah, well, if you saw this one, you might change your mind.” Snake colored. “I mean, if you were a guy.”
And he embarrasses easily, Megan noted. Maybe you’re not as tough as you act like you are, Snake.
“You are such a jerk,” Kendal said. She smacked the skater in the back of the head again.
“Hey,” Snake protested again and stepped to the side so he’d be out of reach. “Don’t be such a-” He brought
