Basic training in dusty Texas, then she shipped out and went overseas—Bob went with her for some of the time, his boss at the delivery company being particularly patriotic—while they rented out the co-op for a year. She learned German, how to drive every type of truck that existed, and a fact about herself: that she had an innate gift for organization. She was given the job of managing fuelers, the men and women who got petroleum products and other vital supplies where they were needed.

Gasoline and diesel fuel win wars; empty tanks lose them. That’s been the rule of warfare for one hundred years.

Then one day her lieutenant came to her and told her two things. One, she was being promoted from corporal to sergeant. Two, she was being sent to school to learn Arabic.

Bob returned to the States and Lucy lugged her gear to a C130 and flew off to the land of bitter fog.

Be careful what you ask for. . . .

Lucy Richter had gone from America—a country with a changed landscape—to a place with none. Her life became desert vistas, searing heat from a hovering sun and a dozen different kinds of sand—some of it abrasive grit that scarred your skin, some fine as talcum that worked its way into every square inch of existence. Her job took on a new gravity. If a truck runs out of fuel on a trip from Berlin to Cologne, you ring up a supply vehicle. If it happens in a combat zone, people die.

And she made sure it never happened.

Hours and hours of juggling tankers and ammunition trucks and the occasional oddity—like playing cowgirl to wrangle sheep into transport trucks, part of an impromptu, voluntary mission to get food to a small village that had been without supplies for weeks.

Sheep . . . What a hoot!

And now she was back in a land with a skyline, no livestock outside of delis or Food Emporium counters, no sand, no burning sun . . . no bitter fog.

Very different from her life overseas.

Lucy Richter, though, was hardly a woman at peace. Which is why she was now staring south, looking for answers in the Great Emptiness of the changed landscape.

Yes or no . . .

The phone rang. She jumped at the sound. She’d been doing this a lot lately—at every sudden noise. Phone, slamming door, backfire.

Chill . . . She picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“Hey, girl.” It was a good friend of hers from the neighborhood.

“Claire.”

“What’s happening?”

“Just chilling.”

“Hey, what time zone’re you in?”

“God only knows.”

“Bob home?”

“Nope. Working late.”

“Good, meet me for cheesecake.”

“Only cheesecake?” Lucy asked pointedly.

“White Russians?”

“You’re in the ballpark. Let’s do it.”

They picked a late-night restaurant nearby and hung up.

With a last look at the black empty southern sky, Lucy rose, pulled on sweats, a ski jacket and hat and left the co-op. She clopped down the dim stairway to the first floor.