“Yes, I’m . . . uh . . .” Details finally started to seep through the fuzziness surrounding her mind. Like the fact that her oldest son was cradling a machine gun in his arms. She looked around the room again, this time realizing that it wasn’t her bedroom after all but Charlie Bean’s apartment, that she was lying on the couch and that one of the windows, the one Dutch had been blasted through, was now patched with plywood slats and plastic sheeting. Then it wasn’t a dream. She suddenly felt very cold inside.

“Mom?”

She forced a smile. “I’m okay, hon. Just a nightmare.” Another glance around. “Where is everyone?”

“I guess Charlie’s still in bed,” the redhead replied, “I haven’t seen hide ’ner hair of him all morning. Chris left as soon as it got light out, and Del’s in here with me.” He turned and walked back into the dining room.

Billie caught up to him just as he laid aside the H & K and sat down next to Del before a tall piece of equipment that had been bolted to the dining table with C-clamps. The reloading machine looked in passing like a drill press from Sears, but a second glance noticed the powder measure and the 9mm dies and a cylinder in the center where empty brass stood. Billie’s two boys were hard at work like a miniature assembly line: Del would prime each casing with a handtool, then pass them along to Bart where they were inserted in the press and the powder charge added automatically. Then, with a pull of the lever arm, the bullet was seated and the casing crimped to hold it. This was all done in a quick, practiced succession, and the plastic bin that caught the finished rounds was filling steadily.

“Hi, Mom,” Delbert said, barely taking his eyes off the work before him. “We’re up to sixty rounds an hour, but Chris says we can hit a hundred easy.” He scooped up the pile of finished rounds and transferred them to the open ammo can on the floor between his feet. It was almost half-full.

“You say Chris left?” she asked. “Where?”

Both boys shrugged in unison. “I guess to look around. He took the rest of his guns with him, though he left the rifle for me.” Bart pointed to the H & K. “Just in case.”

Concern welled up within her, though she hid it from the boys. Chris knows what he’s doing, she assured herself. He can handle it. Nothing will happen to him. But then she thought of that rugged, handsome face, now beaten and cut, swollen to an angry hue. Please don’t let anything happen to him.