“And I have something for you too.” Viv pulled the bag from her arm and took out a little box.

Grace accepted the parcel and drew off the top to reveal a bracelet within. It was a simple thing of metal chain links with a flat white oval at its center on one side and a small medallion on the other. The card it was attached to declared it to be an ARP identification wristlet.

“I have one too.” Viv held out her wrist, proudly displaying her matching jewelry. She’d written her name and their address on it, the same as the one she’d given Grace. “I found them at Woolworths.”

Grace stared down at hers once more as a shroud of dread brushed over her. “An identification wristlet?”

“In case we get bombed.” Viv’s mouth twisted to the side and Grace knew she was biting the inside of her lip, a habit she’d had since she was a girl. “These are far sturdier than our identity cards. So they can know who we are.”

In the last year, the National Registry issued each person in Britain an identity card to carry at all times. But Viv was right; the bit of paper, no matter how thick, was fragile.

“Viv...” Grace swallowed, uncertain what to say.

“If something happens, isn’t it better that we know?” Viv set aside the bag on the table beside a pile of pale yellow chiffon she’d purchased the day before. “I can’t bear the thought of never knowing what happened to you if you didn’t come home. The other night when you became lost in the blackout...” Viv’s smooth forehead puckered with concern. “I was so worried about you.”

Grace stepped closer to her friend to embrace her, but Viv put her hand up. “No, you’ll make me cry if you do that and my makeup will run all down my face.” She pressed the back of her forefinger to the underside of her eyes to delicately dab away any moisture. “I know you probably think this is morbid.”

Grace pressed her lips together to stifle her protest. After years of friendship, they knew one another all too well.

“That’s Saint Christopher at the top, the patron saint of safe travel.” Viv tapped the medallion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I shall. I’m a mess with the fear of being bombed. A bus started up this afternoon and half the people on the street jumped, thinking it was a bomb.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Including me.”

“It was considerate of you to buy this for me.” The wristlet hung heavy in Grace’s hand, weighted by the impact of its purpose—to identify someone who had been blasted beyond recognition by a bomb.

A finger of ice slid down Grace’s spine. “Perhaps I’ll wear it a bit later,” she promised.

Viv nodded with understanding. “Later.”