It was late afternoon and I had finished most of my daily duties. Who knew surviving could be so labor intensive? I was sitting on Ron’s deck with Tony and we were enjoying a cup of coffee together. It was the only time of the day I felt at peace, because when the night set in so did my fears. I was looking out over the pond enjoying the silence with Mike’s dad when he abruptly stood. “You hear that?” he asked me. I thought this strange because he was notoriously hard of hearing, so I did not know the odds of him hearing something before me. (Although I had secretly suspected that his hardness of hearing might more be contributed to selective listening.) Then I heard it, a moment later it was confirmed. “Truck coming!” Mark, Ron’s son, said from his guard station in a turret some thirty feet off the ground. “Military truck,” he clarified. Whoever hadn’t heard the truck outright had most definitely heard his warning cry.
