Gladys had refused that Friday night dinner invitation a few weeks ago, leaving a note for him that she was unavailable. But she said that he could come by the following evening if he liked. Margaret knew it was bunk—Gladys had no plans, as they’d called knitting night off so Margaret could take her parents to dinner to celebrate their anniversary. But she liked the idea of keeping him on his toes. Much like having a new puppy, Oliver was hers to train. Dottie found it unseemly, but Margaret knew better. Any man who hoped to capture Hurricane Gladys’s attention for more than a few days had to let her set the pace. She was not a filly to be wrangled and any projection of docility would have been unfair to a man seeking tradition in a woman.

It was a test of sorts. And so far, Oliver had passed.

“I know you love writing your beau,” Gladys said as the knitting evening convened. Tonight, they’d moved it to the Becks’ house, as Gladys’s apartment building had suffered a roach infestation and the landlord had ordered everyone out for a few nights.

Margaret rolled her eyes at the misguided statement, but otherwise ignored it. “So I’ve learned about something new you might want to try. It’s called Victory Mail.”

“What is it?” asked Dottie. She’d been writing letters twice a week to John and lived for the postman’s arrival at Gladys’s apartment. Thankfully, John had accepted her explanation that she’d left her own home in order to have the adventure of having a roommate before they got married. Letters were nice like that—it slowed the back-and-forth that conversation would have prompted and it made difficult things easier to gloss over.

“The good news,” continued Gladys, “is that we’re certainly doing our part keeping up morale over there. So much so that the volume of letters going from one end of the Atlantic to the other is taking up valuable cargo space. So here you go—I’ve picked up some Victory Mail paper for each of you.”

Margaret took the sheet and looked it over. It was thicker than the usual air mail paper, but smaller in size.

Gladys continued. “You write your letter on this paper and they photograph it and put it on microfilm. Then they send the microfilm overseas—much less bulk than thousands of letters—and print them up on the other end in miniature.”

Margaret gasped. “That’s amazing!”

“Exactly.” Gladys took her place on the Becks’ afghan-covered sofa and picked up her knitting needles. She’d volunteered at the Stage Door Canteen last night, so she was game for a mellow evening in with the girls. “I think the letters are about one-quarter size. Eventually, the actual letters make their way over—perfume and lipstick stained—but only as room is available.”