Even she, who was used to prying up the edges of things and looking for creaking beams and supports, was taken aback. She saw the six tanks that had rumbled down Market Street.

Years later, at picnics or in overheated living rooms, at rest homes or late at night, when the scrapbooks came out, San Franciscans remembered that day as the turning point. There was the kiss between Fairbanks and Pickford, of course, but the moment of determination, when everyone knew that it wasn’t just pluck and spirit and can-do, but sheer, cold, hard industry that would turn the tide: that was the sight of the tanks.

This was when historians turned off their tape recorders. Because America had produced no tanks during the war. Not a single American tank had been built.

What Rebecca saw that night was the importance of an idea, dismantled. She was staring down into the lot of the Kissel Car Company. As men stood guard at every entrance to prevent passersby from seeing into their yard, the tanks were pulled apart. First the papier-mâché machine guns were cut into pieces. Then off came the plywood that had been painted to look like metal. Then the tractor treads were loosened and set in a pile, to be returned to the actual tractors that used them. Finally, the Ford flatbed trucks that had provided the chassis were restored: sheet metal returned to their bodies, doors refitted, windshields bolted back into place.

There was a bonfire that night for the ersatz tank bodies. Rebecca stood and watched, and when she got tired of standing, she sat on the ground, knees up, unable to see the fire, but witnessing the smoke, the illusionary way the heat made the air seem to curve, the way the cinders glowed and went to ash.

She knew that the flames would have to decay at some point. But for now, they were spreading as if they could ignite the entire map. Deep inside her, she began to feel there was more to this life than $180 and her family’s love. There might even be more than the Silver Fish badge, though she knew it was rightfully hers. Somewhere there were greater opportunities.

“I love,” she murmured. This was a phrase she had sometimes whispered, when no one else was around. “I love.”

She thought of the man in the train station from months ago, and she shook her head no, and then she said, “I love,” and thought of her handsome man from today, and then, no, that was not what she loved, either.

“I love …”