Elissa had been unable to think of anything but Nick the entire seven days since she had left him. Only seven days! It already seemed an eternity. She kept replaying in her mind all the moments she had spent with him, and especially the Sunday afternoon good-bye scene at the La Crosse depot. “Good-bye” had never seemed so dreadful a word! And yet, after church and dinner with Betty’s family, there had been no choice but to go to catch the train. Nick and the other boys offered to escort her and Muriel; the eight-block walk had taken far too short a time. Then, as they stood on the platform together, it was difficult to know what to say. Elissa didn’t remember what sort of idiotic small talk she’d ended up making, when there was so much that she wanted to say and was afraid to. And then came the call: “All aboard!”

“Well, I sure hope you can come down next weekend,” Nick had said to her then, kicking at the platform, adding with a little grin, “and that you’ll still like me all right.” He lifted his hand and brushed her cheek with his knuckle; she felt her knees tremble. The train whistle blew. Muriel called to her from the steps of the coach.

When Elissa stepped away from Nick, up the steps into the car, and he let go of her hand, she felt like she’d been torn in half. It seemed impossible that she had met him only the night before; she felt so suddenly incomplete, leaving him. He smiled at her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. She stayed standing in the doorway until the train started to move; her last vision of him was blurry with tears. Finding her seat next to Muriel, she was experiencing a peculiar mix of clammy hands, burning throat and eyes, cheeks aching from smiling too big for too long. Muriel made an immediate diagnosis: “You’re in love,” she declared, squeezing Elissa’s arm. “Isn’t it swell?”

Elissa had long wished for something romantic to happen to her, but she’d had no idea of the pain that would be involved. “Oh, Muriel,” she’d sighed. “I just have to see him again.”

But when she got home to her parents, her father had absolutely refused to let her go back to La Crosse the following weekend for more “shopping.” He said that the trains were crowded enough with the war, and one frivolous trip was more than enough for the year. Then he lit his pipe and disappeared behind the newspaper, putting his feet in their ratty old slippers up on the ottoman. Her mother shot her a sympathetic look, but they both knew there was nothing she could do. Once Jack Mickelson made up his mind, that was it.