The wait was agonizing. They probably were looking for my dad, wherever he was, to see whether he could leave his duties. Would he be working this late? Might he be in his shelter or wherever he spends the night?

They also might have been checking up on me. We’d all filled out so many forms during the evacuation that they probably had my shoe size (11½) and favorite album (Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life, of course).

“Thunder Two, this is Thunder Central. Over.”

“Go ahead, Thunder Central. Over.”

“We are sending a car for him. Over.”

Holy shit, it worked. I resisted saying, “Great news. Over.” I did decide to press my luck in noting: “I thought this place would be full of you guys. Where’s the rest of the army?”

The corporal eyed me. “We wouldn’t be doing a good job guarding the plant if we let everyone see where we are.”

I looked into the trees surrounding the plant and wondered whether they were full of soldiers. I doubted it. Then I wondered whether I could leap up and over the razor-wire fence like I’d jumped the fence while escaping the bear. “What are you guarding the plant for?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” the corporal asked, a slight edge in his monotone.

“Are you afraid someone’s going to come here and attack? Terrorists?”

The corporal looked away. He was done. The private gave his head a slight shake and said, “We’re not big on explanations.”

“Just following orders?” I asked with a smile.

The private looked at me as if I were a mosquito who’d flown too close to his ear. Thus ended my charm offensive.

Soon a golf cart drove toward us from the parking lot carrying two more soldiers, also decked out in gear and fatigues. It pulled up to the guard post, and the guy in the passenger seat asked, “Jordan Conners of 2045 Wade Hampton Road?”

“Yes, sir.”

Unlike every soldier I’d ever seen in the evacuation camp, neither of these men had his name written on his chest or any rank on his shoulder. The driver faced straight ahead, and the soldier in the passenger seat turned to me and said, “Give me the last four numbers of your Social Security number.”

It had been on every single form I’d filled out over the past year, so it was top of mind, and I recited it to him. He pulled a flashlight from his belt, shone it in my face, and looked at his clipboard to compare the real me to whatever photo he was looking at.

“Get on,” he said, and gestured to the small rear-facing seat in the back.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and did as requested.

The cart drove to the far end of the parking lot and around a corner, out of sight of the guarded gate. I hadn’t seen the major construction project on this side of the plant. Two large cranes stood over a cluster of dump trucks, and a steel framework surrounded a pit. I couldn’t tell what they were building.