The Front Lines series

8

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

“Women soldiers are an abomination!”

Rainy turns to look at the source. There is a group of perhaps twenty people, mostly women, holding signs reading, Eve is not Adam!!! and, 1 Timothy 2:12. Suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence!!!

She doubts even the Christian Bible comes with that many exclamation points, and she toys with the idea of offering her own favorite verse from the Torah, Judges 4:21: “But Ja’el the wife of Heber took a tent peg, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly to him and drove the peg into his temple, till it went down into the ground . . . ” But she thinks better of it. A future in military intelligence does not begin with picking fights in train stations.

On the platform she tries to hear the garbled announcements from the public address, but it’s as noisy as a fair with farewells all around her and the hissing of steam engines and the shouts of false gaiety from nervous and excited soldiers.

She can hardly bear to look around her. So much sadness and worry from so many little family groups, so many mothers with tears, and so many fathers struggling not to reveal any emotion at all. It’s a sea of olive drab and khaki, white handkerchiefs held to red noses, pink ribbons tied around newspaper-wrapped food parcels, coral lipstick on the lips of girlfriends, but these sprinkles of color only seem to accentuate the grayness of it all, the gray coats and shabby graying dresses, and gray-green fedoras pulled low, and gray abashed faces of men who are seeing off girlfriends for the first time in history.

Girl and women soldiers are going off to war, wearing pants and boots, shouldering heavy packs and duffels. Some are at the end of their leave after basic training, heading off to deployments in places whose names will be excised from their letters home by the censors. Some are home on leave from Britain or Australia.

It can’t ever have been easy, Rainy thinks, not any war. But the rituals are different now. It has always been that the men went off and the women wept and waved. There is no blueprint for what is happening now. There is no easy reference point. People don’t know quite how to behave, and it’s worse for the men in the station who are staying behind and feel conspicuous and ashamed.

She sees belligerent, defensive looks even as men hug their uniformed sweethearts. She sees looks of dark suspicion aimed at male soldiers when they acknowledge their fellow female soldiers with a grin or a handshake or a clap on the back.

It is all worth noticing, worth considering, Rainy believes. It is all a part of this war. It’s all a small part of something unimaginably huge. Millions are dead already, millions more will die, she is grimly certain of that. She has never really accepted the notion that the arrival of the Americans will end things in a few months. Rainy can read a map, and she has seen how much of the world now lies beneath the flag with the swastika.

Rainy has insisted on coming alone to the station, fearing the flood of parental emotion that would weaken her determination. She’s already been through that when she first enlisted, and when she went off to basic training, and now she’s heading to this intelligence school for still more training, after which . . .

Well, after which no one knew for sure. Everyone says America is ready, finally, to go up against the Germans. Marines are already fighting the Japanese, but despite the special rage and hatred people felt for the Japanese, Rainy knows the Germans are the greater danger.

Aryeh can kill Japanese; Rainy wants to kill Nazis. They are the great enemies of humanity; they are the cancer on civilization. The German armed forces—the Wehrmacht—has already destroyed vast armies, conquered millions of square miles. They have deliberately starved hundreds of thousands at Leningrad. The German air force—the Luftwaffe—has slaughtered tens of thousands of civilians in Poland and in England. The German navy and its vicious submarine wolf packs have littered the ocean floor with ships and the bones of sailors.

It is the Germans, the Nazis, who have enslaved millions of French, Dutch, Poles, Czechs, Danes, Belgians, Ukrainians, and others.

It is the Nazis who force Jewish children into camps in Poland and Russia.

Why hasn’t Cousin Esther written? Why has no one gotten a letter from any Jew in Nazi-occupied territory?

Rainy does not expect to fire a weapon in anything but training, but intelligence work can be as deadly to her foe, and the Nazis are her foe, her personal foe. She will remember—she has ordered herself to remember—that each day she performs her duties well will contribute to destroying that enemy.

And saving the world.

That thought coaxes a small smile from her. All by yourself, Rainy? She mocks herself. Will you destroy Hitler and his empire of hate?

“If I get the chance,” she whispers.

Finally she hears her train being called, snatches up her bag, and pushes her way through the crowd. It’s a long train behind two huffing black engines leaking clouds of steam, and it takes her a while to find her assigned compartment. She’s the second to get there, behind a civilian woman with a vast handbag stuffed with salamis and wilting flowers.

“Ma’am,” Rainy says respectfully, and takes a window seat. The woman glares at her and pulls her bag closer, as if fearing Rainy will take something.

Three young male soldiers pile in—the compartment can hold eight if no one breathes too deeply. They’re either drunk very early or drunk very late, depending on whether they’ve gone to bed.

“Hey, it’s a girl!” one of them says, and flops fragrantly beside her. They’re all privates, no insignia of rank yet adorns their uniforms.

“You sure that’s a girl? Don’t look like no girl. Looks like a . . .” And there his verbal abilities fail him, and he trains unfocused eyes on Rainy before slumping back, unconscious.

A conductor is pushing his way down the jammed and noisy corridor, leading a male officer. He reaches the door to the compartment, holds it open, accepts a tip, and, as he closes the compartment door, slides down the roll-up blind.

Rainy watches the officer, a first lieutenant. The lieutenant watches her right back, takes in the three drunks and the civilian woman, and sits opposite Rainy.

The two more-conscious soldiers immediately attempt to straighten themselves up, adjusting caps and in one case making a valiant but doomed attempt to align buttons with their proper holes.

It is unusual, to say the least, to have an officer sitting here in the cheap seats. Maybe the train is overloaded. But no, this officer was guided here.

“Lieutenant,” Rainy says, and nods. Protocol does not call for saluting in this situation.

The lieutenant makes a show of reading the name tag on her uniform. “Schulterman, is it?”

“PFC Rainy Schulterman, sir,” Rainy acknowledges.

He smiles. It’s not a leer, nor is it a friendly smile. It’s a practiced smile. He’s carrying only a briefcase, no duffel. His boots are shined, his uniform is crisp. He’s perhaps twenty-five, with watery-blue eyes behind glasses, blond hair, scrubbed pink skin, thin lips and shoulders. He’s a crease-checker, one of those men who reach compulsively to pinch the crease in his trousers, making sure it stays straight, that it stands tall above the thigh before being flattened by the pressure of the kneecap.

“Where you headed, PFC?”

“South, sir.”

“Just south?” Again, the practiced smile. “That covers a lot of ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

He considers this, and the train jerks as the big steel wheels engage. The platform and its waving, weeping population slide away, made to look like a dreamscape by the wreaths of steam.

“Girl like you, I guess you’re headed to Fort Ritchie, right?” He waits a beat for an answer and gets nothing. “It’s all right, Private, we’re on the same side.” He laughs confidentially. “I swear I won’t tell a soul.” He makes the sign of the cross over his heart.

“Is that where you’re heading, Lieutenant?”

He pretends not to hear.

The passed-out drunk is sliding as the train moves, feet beneath the seat, knees extending, back slipping; he’ll be on the floor as soon as they hit a turn.

The officer pulls a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He taps one halfway out and offers it to Rainy.

“No thank you, sir.”

“Don’t smoke?”

“It seems a bit . . . close . . . in here,” Rainy ventures.

“Do you mind if I . . .” He holds a cigarette hovering near his lips.

“Not at all, sir,” she says. She does mind, but she’s not going to chide a military intelligence officer. That is of course what he is, she has no doubt of that, despite the lack of any revealing insignia.

He lights his cigarette and blows a blue cloud. “What do you think of all this, if you don’t mind my asking, Private?”

“All what, sir?”

He shrugs and waves the cigarette in an arc encompassing the compartment and perhaps more. “Must be strange, being a girl and all.”

“No, sir. I’ve been a girl my whole life.”

It’s the kind of response that walks right up to the line of being a smartass answer. The lieutenant’s grin is quick and genuine this time. “Yeah, I guess it’s not so bad for some girls. You might meet a nice fellow.”

Rainy doesn’t answer.

“You’re not so talkative, are you, Private?”

Rainy manages a tight smile, and this seems to encourage him. “Well, maybe I haven’t introduced myself properly. Lieutenant Janus. Heading to Pittsburg myself. I’m in supply and logistics there.”

Sure you are.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The sharp, jerking movement comes as they clear the station and accelerate, and sure enough the passed-out drunk slides toward the floor. Rainy leans forward and lays a hard tap with the edge of her hand on his knee. He jerks awake just long enough to curl himself sideways and avoid sliding all the way.

The civilian woman does not approve of any of this. The other two privates are leaning into each other having the kind of very intense conversations men sometimes have when inebriated. The topic appears to be a friend who’s been rated unfit for service, 4F, and whether or not he’s a wolf who will be going after their girls ten seconds after the train is out of the station. Also, beer. And something to do with some jackass sergeant who . . .

They suddenly recall that there’s an officer present and fall silent.

“May I ask what attracted you to supply and logistics, sir?” And again the question is absolutely respectful and cheeky at the same time.

“Mostly the logistics,” he says solemnly. He’s beginning to suspect she’s playing with him.

“Yes, sir. I’ve never been entirely clear on what that involves.”

He does not offer to enlighten her. “You from here in New York City?”

“Well, that’s where I caught this train, sir.”

“Family?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mother? Father?”

“One of each, sir.”

“I don’t suppose they’re happy seeing you dragged into this stupid, pointless war, eh?”

“I wasn’t aware that the war was stupid. Or pointless.”

A long drag on the cigarette. A crease check. “Well, it’s not our war, is it? Why should we be fighting to save Britain from the Germans? Let alone the Russians, those Bolshevik, Commie bastards. Tell me, Private: why should we be fighting for a dying colonial empire and a dangerous totalitarian state?”

Rainy takes a moment to consider the correct answer. “Because that’s what the chain of command has ordered us to do, sir.”

Check. And mate.

He sees it now. He sighs. “I’m going to see if I can get some fresh air. You’re right, it’s rather close in here. Join me, PFC Schulterman.”

It’s not a request. Rainy stands up and follows him into the still-jammed corridor. She spots the Full sign the conductor has hung on their not-really-full compartment. The lieutenant leads her to the end of the car, just a few feet, and out onto a rickety, noisy gallery between rattling cars. The platform is not two feet deep. It’s cold out, and a whole lot colder with the forty-mile-an-hour wind generated by the increasing train’s speed.

“You can cut the crap now, PFC.” He has to raise his voice over the clatter of steel wheels and steel coupling.

“Sir. One of two things must happen now, respectfully.”

He tilts his head. “Oh?”

“Sir, either you show me identification stating that you are with Army Intelligence, or I will have no choice but to report you to the first officer I find. You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“Ha!” He’s both delighted with, and abashed by, her answer. “How long did it take you?”

“Sir, your ID, please.”

His mouth hangs open for a second, then with a genuine grin that takes five years off his face so he looks like an adolescent playing dress-up, he reaches inside his tunic and hands her a cardboard identity card.

His name is not Lieutenant Janus, it’s Captain Jon Herkemeier. And he is Army Intelligence.

“Well done, PFC Schulterman.” He puts the ID away and reveals that in addition to being a crease-checker, he’s a lapel tugger. Fidgety and fastidious. “And now answer my question: how long did it take?”

“No time at all, sir.”

“Ah.”

“You’re an officer in enlisted country. The conductor brought you to that specific compartment. You ignored the others and focused on me. You have no luggage. The conductor hung a Full sign as soon as you came in. So, if I may speak freely . . .”

He waves his cigarette by way of permission.

“You were either a very indifferent masher, or you were FBI or Army Intelligence checking me out.”

He nods, sticks the smoke into his mouth, and extends his hand. She shakes it formally.

“You know how to keep your mouth shut,” he says. “That’s good.” One last drag and he flicks the butt out over the track. “That’s very good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, the military intelligence school for you, eh?”

“Sir, either you know where I’m heading, or you don’t.”

“Huh. All right then, PFC Schulterman. Carry on.”

He leaves her there, and by the time she makes it back to the compartment the Full sign is gone and her seat has been lost to fresh bodies.

Rainy is irritated at losing her seat. And sinfully proud of having successfully run this gantlet.

I’m going to like this game.

The next day, showered, her hair as under control as it ever is, her uniform as neat as she can make it, Rainy joins the first class of recruits in the history of the Military Intelligence Training School to number females among its complement. Twenty-seven males and fourteen females jump from their steel chairs as a gaggle of officers enter and take the stage.

Rainy is not surprised to see the erstwhile Lieutenant Janus—Captain Herkemeier—standing behind and to one side of the colonel who commands the school.

For about two minutes Rainy feels the pride of standing alongside other enlisted personnel chosen for their intelligence, discretion, judgment, and skill at languages. Colonel Derry, a small man with a thin mustache and thick glasses, throws a very big bucket of cold water on that emotion.

“The Supreme Court, in its infinite wisdom, has decreed that we must . . .” Here Colonel Derry searches for the right word and ends up spitting it out like a piece of bad meat. “. . . accept . . . Have decreed that we must accept females into this training facility.” Maybe he is naturally pop-eyed, or maybe the lenses of his spectacles make his eyes appear ready to pop like overfilled water balloons, but most likely, Rainy believes, he is actually enraged. His voice is certainly tense and high-strung. And he bounces on the balls of his feet with each word he emphasizes. It creates an odd sort of show since his choices of emphasis seem almost random.

“I have been ordered to thus accept females, and I carry out my orders. But as long as I am in command of this facility, I will exercise my discretion to the maximum, to ensure that the natural order of the sexes ”—that phrase comes with three rapid bounces—“a natural order that has decreed that woman shall bear children and tend the hearth, while men shoulder the harsher burdens of life’s vicissitudes . . .” He loses his way for a moment, but finds it quickly enough. “Females will be accorded all the courtesies of their rank, and woe to any male who treats them ill. But woe as well to any female who forgets her place or fails to exhibit the virtues of her sex! ”

Throughout this Captain Jon Herkemeier stares straight ahead, neither nodding nor shaking his head.

There are suppressed snickers from some of the male soldiers. Rainy can hardly blame them. Virtues of their sex is a phrase almost designed for deliberate misinterpretation.

Rainy doesn’t look around—one does not look around when a colonel is speaking—but within her peripheral vision are two other females, neither looking pleased.

“In short,” Colonel Derry concludes, “I expect each of you to pay the closest attention to your instructors. I expect your fullest devotion to the task at hand. This is no easy course of study, and if any of you male soldiers think you’re going to avoid service overseas, I can tell you that you are likely to be disappointed. The ladies will surely stay safe, but for you men, your lives and the lives of other soldiers may well depend on the techniques and skills you learn here.”

In one five-minute speech, Colonel Derry crushes any hope Rainy has that she will be treated fairly.

Is there any point in this? No doubt there are useful assignments here in the States, but that’s not the image that’s been in Rainy’s mind, the image that’s motivated her to push through the pain and humiliation of basic training. She did not learn to qualify on rifles, machine guns, rifle grenades, and mortars in order to sit at a desk in some swampy hole somewhere safe. She did not drag her exhausted body up and down hills, through obstacle courses and live fire drills, only to end up typing and answering telephones in Arizona or some other godforsaken hole.

She cannot, will not, spend the war in a swivel chair. Not while Aryeh is chasing Japs across the Pacific Ocean.

But open defiance will get her cut from the program. Complaining up the chain of command will get her cut from the program. Trying to recruit support from male soldiers will make her look weak and cause her to be cut from the program.

There is only one way to prevail. That is to outwork, outthink, outperform every soldier in the school.

Rainy Schulterman is ready for that challenge.

9

RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA

“Atten-HUT!”

Rio, Jenou, and two dozen other new recruits, more male than female, stand more or less straight, in rows that are more or less straight. They have just piled off a bus from the train station following a sixteen-hour trip, and they are tired, frazzled, and a bit nervous. They stretch and shake out their arms and yawn at the deep-blue sky.

In Rio’s estimation, they are in the middle of nowhere. The last town they passed had a gas station, a hardware store, a feed store even smaller than the one Rio’s father owns, a diner, and a shack that might have been a tavern. And that was pretty much the beginning, middle, and end of the town of Smidville, Georgia, a town that made Gedwell Falls look like Chicago by comparison.

The camp, which they’ve been told is named Camp Maron, consists of a series of long wooden barracks that, judging by the smell of pinewood and paint, have been slapped together within just the last few days.

But this new construction is mirrored by an older, more run-down version of itself called Camp Szekely, which is just across a sluggish, green, reed-choked stream. No bridge crosses the stream, so to move from Camp Maron to Camp Szekely you have to leave by the front gate of one, drive half a mile down an orange clay road, and enter the other camp. It’s a mile away by road, but you could throw a rock from one camp to the other.

The colors here are green, gray, and orange. Green trees—hemlock, beech, and oak, but more shaggy, unsteady-looking pine than anything else. Some of the hardwoods are hung with Spanish moss, a sort of gray garland that gives everything an aged and mournful look.

The cleared areas are startlingly orange. Wet red clay holds shapes well, so the roads and bare fields are patterned by the big tires of deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps, graders, tractors, and, most basically, boots.

The first mosquito appears within twenty seconds of Rio climbing from the bus.

“Parade rest. That means you widen your stance and link your hands behind your backs. NO! Not with the soldier next to you, goddammit! Your own hands! Now, listen up, men,” the sergeant says in a perturbed but not-unfriendly voice. “You will pick up your gear and fall out to the barracks you see on your . . . Not now, you fugging ninnies, you fall out when I give the order! Sweet suffering Jesus in a chicken basket!”

The few who went running to their bags and shabby suitcases piled up outside the steaming bus quickly hop back in line.

“You will fall out to the quartermaster to be issued your uniforms and gear. Then you will proceed to your assigned barracks. And there you will find your new home. One barracks—and only one—will be shared by male and female recruits; we do not have the luxury of separate facilities. So there is a curtain that will be drawn across to separate you. Women bunk on the north side, men bunk on the south side of that line. Get squared away and be ready in one hour. Atten-HUT! Dismissed!”

Rio and Jenou trot back to search for their bags—they’ve been told to bring nothing but a few small personal items and a change of clothing. One of the men offers to carry Jenou’s bag for her, and Rio can see that she’s just about to consent.

“She can carry her own bag,” Rio says. “Thanks just the same.”

Jenou gives her a wry look, but Rio has an instinct born of the long train ride and the bus ride with male recruits. Her instinct tells her that the way to survive here is to take nothing from anyone.

The quartermaster occupies a long, low wooden structure with trucks parked in back and jeeps in front. Inside the sexes are sent in different directions, women following a tacked-up piece of paper that says “Ladies.” Rio wonders if the quotation marks are meant to be a smart-aleck commentary.

A female corporal with a clipboard repeats, “Strip to your panties, put your things in a box, label the box using the grease pencils, advance.”

They file mostly naked into the hallway, which has blessedly been blocked by a hastily attached curtain. But they must pass a window en route, and a pair of soldiers are leering in at them, pointing and making inaudible comments.

Rio’s face burns red, and she clutches the box to her chest protectively, while Jenou winks at the soldiers and half-lowers her box teasingly before sticking out her tongue.

They advance to a waist-high counter. A female private behind the counter looks Rio up and down with the quick professional glance of a woman who was, until three months ago, a clerk at Carson, Pirie, Scott department store in Chicago. “Twenty-four waist, thirty-four length, and a medium blouse.” She reaches into the cut-down cardboard boxes behind her and produces two olive drab uniforms and a set of fatigues. These she slaps on the counter.

Rio starts to move on.

“Wait.” The clerk produces three undershirts, three pairs of men’s boxer shorts, three pairs of socks. “Shoe size, cup size?”

“My pumps are size six, but—”

“Size seven.” Boots appear.

“Cup? Come on, honey, you’ve bought a bra before, haven’t you?”

“Thirty-two B.”

“Sure, if you say so.” The private reaches into a box clearly labeled: Brassiere, OD, Size: A Cup. “The strap’s adjustable. You’ll get used to it. Move along.”

Rio is on the point of arguing, but there isn’t much a person can say standing there in panties. So she piles her new clothing up, slides her arms beneath the pile, and staggers back to the converted closet where women and girls chat noisily and begin a process that will not end before the war itself: complaining about the army.

“What are these things supposed to be?” A woman holds up her new olive drab bra with far more buckles and straps than usual.

“These socks itch like crazy.”

“This is definitely not my size, who sewed this blouse? Just look at this stitching.”

Rio dresses and waits for Jenou to catch up. Both breathe a sigh of relief when they are fully covered, though nothing fits quite right.

It’s the boots that feel strangest. They are undeniably masculine, brown leather, laced up to above the ankle. They are heavy and solid and the leather squeaks as Rio walks in them, trying them out.

For the first time, Rio and Jenou step out into the world wearing a uniform. These are not their first trousers—Gedwell Falls girls generally do some sort of physical labor at some point that requires overalls or dungarees—but it is the first time either of them by their dress have announced themselves as belonging to something. Being something other than just two high school girls.

They walk, terribly self-conscious, to the barracks.

The barracks is a very simple affair, one long room with metal frame cots in rows on each side, near but not precisely aligned with tall windows, eighteen bunks on each side, for a total of thirty-six soldiers. At the foot of each cot is an OD-painted wooden locker. Against the wall is a rack with four wooden hangers and a rickety shelf above. The floor is polished linoleum, cream and maroon squares. The walls are tan-painted wood paneling. Artificial light comes from eight bare lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling on cords. At the south end of the barracks is a large latrine area. A stenciled sign reads Male.

The heat and humidity inside the barracks are enough to steam rice.

At the north end is a separate room the size of a small bedroom, with a stenciled plaque that reads Sgt. Mackie. Across from this lone bit of personal territory is a smaller latrine labeled Female.

“So, this is home,” Jenou says.

“I guess so, for the next thirteen weeks.” Rio feels at once excited and lost. The hurried goodbye with her parents did not go well. There were tense, angry words and threats, in particular a threat to march Rio down to the intake center and tell them that she was not yet of legal age.

“It’s no good, Father,” Rio said after several heated exchanges. “It’s either now or in a few months when you can’t stop me. But if I go now I may be able to stay together with Jenou. I’d rather have a friend with me; we can look out for each other. But one way or the other, I’m going.”

Jenou’s parents did not bother to show up at all, but Jenou’s family is not as tight-knit as Rio’s. In fact, if Jenou is to be believed—and Rio does believe her—it’s barely a family at all. It was irritating being cross-examined by her tearful parents, but Rio preferred it to the cold indifference that sent Jenou off to join the army.

“What do you think, Jen?”

“I think this is my cot. You take that one.”

Rio looks around, wondering why this particular cot has attracted Jenou. Then she sees that the curtain separating the men from the women will be drawn right next to Jenou’s cot.

“I’m not sure your mind is completely focused on protecting and defending the Constitution of the United States of America,” Rio says.

Jenou grins. “I swore to protect and defend the Constitution of the US of A from all enemies, Rio. They didn’t say I couldn’t have fun while I was at it.”

“Listen up.” The voice is not loud, but it is authoritative, and to Rio’s surprise it belongs to a woman. Rio’s first impression is that Sergeant Mackie looks a bit like Rio herself. The sergeant is tall and has that hard-to-define quality that is the mark of a life spent largely out of doors. Her black hair is cut short, almost as short as a man’s. Her eyes are blue like Rio’s but a great deal more intimidating. She wears no makeup of any kind. The creases in her uniform are so sharp she could carve a roast beef with them. There are four gold stripes on her shoulders, three up-pointing darts and one smile-like arc beneath and a handful of tiny, colorful rectangles on her chest. Her boots could almost be patent leather they’re so shiny.

Sergeant Mackie is trim, fit, vibrating with physical energy, and shows no trace of emotion, fellow-feeling, or sympathy. She stands at rest, feet planted wide, and there seems to be around her a sort of invisible fence that makes the very thought of being close to her, let alone of touching her, an impossibility. She is a person who, deprived of uniform and dressed in a church-day frock would still look like a soldier.

Sergeant Mackie has the effect of making Rio feel deeply, profoundly inadequate; inadequate, soft, weak, silly, and hopelessly inferior. All this before Mackie has spoken more than two words.

“When you are called to attention you will stand at the end of your cot on the right-hand corner, by which I mean that your left hand should point directly down at the edge of the frame. Atten-HUT!”

Men and women alike do their best to comply, but not without confusion accompanied by a certain amount of horseplay and wry looks and winks, especially from some of the younger males.

Sergeant Mackie seems at first not to notice the mirth. Then she walks—strides, really—in measured steps, her mirror-polished boots so steady and slow as to be almost sinister, to a tall, beefy male of maybe nineteen or twenty years who is among those laughing. He’s got buzz-cut light-brown hair, a forehead that wants to crush the dark eyes beneath, and a determined, angry mouth, though at the moment he’s still stifling a giggle as he stands at an insolent, unimpressed attention. Mackie squares off before him. He is taller than she by a head, so she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes with an expression that is mystified, as if she can’t quite make out just what she’s seeing.