However, when Micki emerged from the storeroom, with the long arms and legs rolled accordingly, her thoughts were on something other than the lack of a good fit. Luke's dogtags, now concealed around her neck, had just become one more piece in a never-ending puzzle. The man was full of surprises... none of which she expected to be a domestic streak. In her absence, he had not only changed into the blue jeans that fit like a second skin and the torn dress shirt, but he had poured water into the MRE heater packs to start the chemical reaction that would warm their food. Mr. Macho had started dinner! Despite all her newfound questions, Micki paused to smile. Luke sat cross-legged on the shanty floor, with the silver thermal blanket from her survival backpack pulled about his shoulders, and the food and water canteen before him. He looked like a Boy Scout at camp. Or a soldier hunkered down behind enemy lines. Her smile faded. No, Luke wasn't a soldier, he was a sailor. US Navy, according to the dogtags.
