“No, don’t go there,” he said. “What is, is, but I can’t dwell on that now. We’ve got a job to do, and me being maudlin and weepy won’t help with any of it.”

“I really am sorry, Joe.”

The silhouette of his head turned toward her. “Thank you,” he said.

They sat in silence for a minute or two. It felt like forever. Victoria continued, “What makes my heart race and destroys my spirit is the sheer inconvenience of what lies ahead for us. For everyone.”

McCrea said, “I sense that you and your boys are preppers of some sort.”

“That overstates it. I’ve always been an outdoors girl. I hunt and fish, and all kinds of gender-bending stuff. One of my colleagues in the House convinced me that it wasn’t a bad idea to be ready to bug out on short notice. We live in a world where it’s okay to accost and assault politicians in restaurants. It didn’t seem like too big a stretch to see them being run out of their homes. Mobs are mobs.”

“Smart thinking. So, are the boys hunters and fishermen, too?”

She gave a quiet chuckle. “Luke loves it. Caleb endures it.”

“He has a problem with killing Bambi?”

“Oh, heavens no. That boy has a sniper’s instinct with a rifle. Give him a sharp enough knife, and he’ll have Bambi gutted and quartered so fast, you’ll fear for his fingers. No, I say he endures it because he’s sixteen and furious.”

“Furious about what?”

“Furious about everything, but nothing that I think he can articulate.”

“Adolescent angst?”

“I hope so. Otherwise, he’s developing as a sociopath.” She put a hand on McCrea’s knee. “I’m exaggerating, you realize, right?”

“I’ve only known him—known all of you—for a few hours, but I think you might be worrying too much. He’s shown some real tenderness toward you and his brother.”

Victoria piffed.

“Seriously. I think he takes his man-of-the-house role very seriously.”

“Maybe I’m too close to see it,” Victoria said. “I appreciate hearing it, though.”

“May I ask what happened to their fathers?”

“No plural,” Victoria said. “Same dad. An IED took him out in Afghanistan.”

“Too common a story,” McCrea said. “I did six tours over in the Sandbox. I wrote a lot of letters to grieving spouses.”

“I was so angry,” Victoria said. The anger still boiled in her tone. “Such a horrible, horrible waste. Glenn was a great guy. A patriot, through and through. Perfect father material. And when I thought about some jihadi choosing him at random, I didn’t know what to do with the rage. It’s not fair to bring the boys into it, and I was not a great officer’s wife. I didn’t have deep roots in the grieving wives’ community.”

“So, how’d you cope?”