Among Margaret’s friends, doubt had seeped into the traditions they’d been raised with as life and loss permeated their conversations in ways they’d never had to consider before. Instead of trifles such as how to make the perfect gravy or what ice cream cone flavor to choose at the pharmacy counter, they worried: What if the men don’t make it back? What if the Germans come here across the Atlantic? And the corollary response: Do what you want to because this all might end.

(Corollary had been a recent Word of the Day, and Margaret had already used it three times in conversation. And once in her thoughts: The corollary to John shipping off unexpectedly was that he and Dottie had the wedding night before the wedding.)

Gladys changed into a pair of flat leather boots just after they passed through the iron gate at the security check. The twin carcasses of the USS Maine and the USS New Hampshire towered above them, sparks flying from welders’ blowtorches as they disassembled the battleships piece by piece. Margaret watched in fascination, never tiring of seeing the power of fire against metal.

Five such ship orders had been canceled here and in Philadelphia and Norfolk, their superior firepower capabilities falling into less favor than the new class of ship that could serve as a sea base for air operations. Aircraft carriers.

Ships built like runways so that airplanes could land and refuel in the middle of the ocean.

The war, at least, produced marvels that might otherwise have been relegated to futuristic fiction.

Margaret regretted the years of toil that Brooklyn workers had poured into the battleships, only to have to erase their own efforts. Thankfully, their shipyard had been chosen to build the vessels that introduced a cause for hope.

It was like a death. A death that also brought new life. Sorrow and joy could only be known because of the existence of the other.

She paused as they passed the third one—the USS Missouri. The last of this class of battleships. Too far into production to cancel. The one that connected the past to the future.

Much like Dottie and John’s baby.

The work siren blew, echoing through the foggy air and shaking Margaret from her wistful thoughts. This was not the time to be defeated by worries and musings. The future of this little child would be secured only by taking action. Not just here at work, but in the hours between.

John’s most recent letter had arrived yesterday and it had given her an idea.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked as she slipped her yellow card into the punch clock.

Gladys grinned and Margaret watched her sort through some of the more scandalous answers that she would have characteristically given. But she restrained herself, perhaps as eager to get the workday started—and finished—as Margaret was.