Gladys and Margaret were sleeping in twin beds in an upstairs bedroom at Dottie’s house. Gladys’s words stirred her from a deep sleep, where she’d dreamed of William and Tom, their faces interchanging. They went from eating egg salad sandwiches at an Automat in Brooklyn to fighting on a stormy battlefield, the two moments sequentially seamless. She closed her eyes and one man pulled her into his arms. But she woke up before she could discover which one it was.

What lingered was the feeling he’d given her—as if resting her head on his shoulder allowed her to melt into his strength and find respite from the troubles of the world.

It felt like a brand-new definition of home, one that she didn’t fully understand.

She rubbed her eyes as Gladys pulled back the bedroom’s curtains.

“Seriously, Mags. I’ve never seen anything like this. Come here.”

Margaret swung her legs over the side of the bed, surprised that she was wearing the pajamas that Dottie had laid out for her because she didn’t even remember putting them on.

She did remember drinking copious amounts of wine with the girls after Dottie returned from nursing Joanna and putting her down for the night. Lighting a fire in the dark was a feat that had them descending into a giggle fit, but they’d managed it and sat with it until its embers had cooled.

Her mouth felt sticky and all she wanted to do was brush her teeth. But she followed Gladys’s voice and trudged over.

What a disaster. Debris and rocks and shingles and branches littered the yard. Electric lines sagged and their poles were bent like broken skeletons.

It was the ideal tonic for a hangover. The clouds in her head dissipated and her blood raced. Is this what Gladys felt like when she marched for her causes? Because Margaret felt an unfamiliar urge to go out there and hoist limbs and bring her town back to life.

“It’s what I imagine a battlefield to look like,” she said. “And this is just what we see from Dottie’s window.”

“I’m sure Oliver will be traipsing through it all day. This is definitely something his editor might want to hear about.”

“I don’t think they get hurricanes in England, do they?” Margaret asked.

“Not that I know of. He’ll be good at conveying it with words, though. Oliver’s articles are chock-full of description. I can’t wait to see what he thinks of this.”

A gentle knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Margaret called.

It was Dottie, holding a cooing Joanna in her arms, wrapped in the yellow blanket that Margaret had knit for her. The baby was oblivious to the devastation surrounding the house. Oh, to be a child again.

“Have you looked outside?” Dottie asked.

“Yes. There are no words.”