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wrestled with her backpack. Jessica assisted her as she lowered it onto the right bunk and commenced crying.
    "What's wrong? Did I catch your skin in the backpack? I'm so sorry."
    "No. It's Dickie."
    Here we go with the Dickie business again. Jessica flipped on the bathroom light. There was an old shower stall, toilet, and door to the next room. The sink was by the hall door in the bedroom. At least they wouldn't have to wait for the Belinda Phoon ladies to paint their faces. Jessica used the facility, then unpacked.
    Rosaleen curled in a ball, sobbing. Jessica offered her a box of Kleenex. She accepted and blew. And blew and blew.
    "Can I get you anything?"
    "No."
    "Do you want to talk?"
    "No."
    She was guiltily relieved. It's not like Rosaleen hadn't been complaining about Dickie online for three years and Jessica never did figure out what the rift was.
    The girls brushed and flossed and changed into cotton night gowns. At exactly ten o'clock, the building went dark. The mattress was firm, but the pillow seemed like a lumpy bowl of oatmeal. Thunder crashed as lightening flashed shadows in through the window.
    Later, Jessica lay on the edge of her bed with one leg dangling over the side. Not by choice, but water was dripping through the moldy ceiling tiles in every other location in the room, so Rosaleen was now sharing her bunk.
    In between crying fits, Rosaleen snored like a lioness. She'd elbowed Jessica twice in the neck as she lay staring at the red LED numbers on the alarm clock. At four thirty-three, Jessica had yet to doze off. She jumped up screaming when Rosaleen sliced her leg with a toenail.
    * * *
    They survived the first day of boot camp. After a delicious dinner of parsley and kohlrabi slathered in mayonnaise, Jessica walked stiffly toward the ladies room. The aroma of pizza from the Panther ballroom caused her to stop at the door, close her eyes, and inhale. Oh, did she want just one slice. Just one whole pie. Just one cheesecake.
    Hearing the approach of voices, Jessica opened her eyes, smoothed her wrinkled cotton capris, and smiled at the two men leaving the room. They looked right through her.
    Just wait. By the end of the month, I'll be fifty pounds lighter with long, lean muscles, pert breasts and behind, no cellulite or wrinkles. Well, maybe I'll be ten pounds lighter, and maybe my panties will fully cover my rear again.
    The last man from the room emerged, with wild eyes and pointing to his throat.
    The universal sign of choking. Jessica asked, "Can you speak?"
    He shook his head.
    Jessica spun him around and hugged him from behind. Making one hand into a fist with the other clamped over it, she positioned it in the space between his ribs and sternum. By the second inward and upward thrust, he was spitting a long string of mozzarella cheese onto the floor. One last thrust and he said, "Thank you."
    "Did I hurt you?"
    "No."
    Jessica stepped around the cheese and grabbed a hunk of napkins from the table. As she cleaned, a shudder overtook her. "You could have died!" she said, tears dripping down her cheeks. She threw the mess in a trash can.
    "I'm prepared to die. Every day on duty, I know it might be my last shift. But I am not ready to let a pizza be my grim reaper."
    Jessica didn't know whether to laugh or not.
    He grabbed her hand and said, "I'm Hunter Jones."
    He had a firm grip and Jessica immediately noticed his long fingers. Her thoughts turned to what they say about men with long fingers. She demurely looked him up and down. He was a good six inches taller. Khaki naval work uniform. A sailor. He smiled when she finally looked at his chiseled face. Clean shaven, long lashes framed sparkling brown eyes. Brown hair immaculately cut into a very short flat top.
    Jessica realized he was still holding her hand. Her gaze shifted to his left hand. No ring. No tell-tale tan line. "I need to get going."
    "Can't I buy you a drink or something?"
    Oh yeah. I'll have a cosmopolitan, and you can dribble it over