After Dottie showed them how to cast on and make the base row, they got the hang of the pattern—knit, purl, knit, purl. The difficult part was learning how to maneuver three needles instead of the two that Margaret was used to, but even that became routine as they cast stitch after stitch. It gave her a small thrill to see it come together as a kind of a tube and she could envision how it would turn into a sock.

Margaret noticed that she was stitching along to the beat. Distracted by the music—Bing Crosby, Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey—and the twittering of their conversation, she was surprised that an hour later, she had produced the base of a sock that, while not storefront-perfect, was something to be proud of. Despite her adeptness with a sewing needle, she’d always felt inferior with a knitting one in comparison to Dottie.

Perhaps her flaw was the meticulous scrutiny she gave her projects. Worrying over every blemish to the point that nothing felt good enough. Another of her mother’s favorite quotes came to mind, this one from Voltaire: Don’t make the perfect the enemy of the good.

John and the boys on the front had enough enemies. She didn’t need to let her insecurities add to them. They would surely love these socks, mistakes and all.

And to be honest, they were not likely to notice.

Margaret looked up and saw that Gladys was about as far along as she was while Dottie was well on her way to finishing the matched sock that would complete the pair. At this rate, they could clothe the whole army in a short time.

Dottie leaned in and showed them how to change the pattern in order to create the ribbed part that would hug the shin. Knit two, purl two.

As she continued, Margaret thought about the boys who would wear them and about a special request that John had asked of her.

Could you write a note to my buddy William? He hasn’t received any letters yet, and I don’t know why. But I think it would mean an awful lot to him. Something cheery. You’re just the girl to do it.

She paused to glide a finger along her nearly done piece and thought about who this William was. Would he put the pair on right away? Or would he stash it in his rucksack for later? But most important, would he smile at the thought that some girl in Brooklyn had spent a Saturday evening making this for him?

She was grateful her brother had enlisted her help. It gave her the kind of purpose that she felt working at the Navy Yard. That in some little way, she was contributing to the war effort.

“Margaret, watch out!”