"I will not. You're not acting very nice!"
"It's a war sweetie. You can kiss (i)nice(i) goodbye."
A nickle thrown at a spitoon atop a broken down pickup truck quietly alerted. Cartons of paper, ink, and equipment were covered with tarps.
"I was having a visit with my son." She hit a shin on a crate and swore. "Open this," she indicated the unopened crate. Two people went towards it with crow bar and hammer. "Did we sweep all this crap?" A uniformed asked. "Here's the prov-en-ance paperwork." A shaking hand dug the form out of a skirt pocket under an apron.
"We're all calling you Ursula now, just so you know."
"Not all of us."
"Why? Because it was her idea?"
"(i)Children!"
"Wire's saying you people have the whole seaboard shut down."
"We didn't do that," a flak jacketed man said into a flashlight like a microphone.
"It's still the real thing?" A woman asked a counterpoint man.
The spitoon alert rang deeply, sharply. A woman's voice followed a smack on skin sound, "Put the gun away. I don't know much but ya'aint s'posed to shoot at that."
"How am I holding it up?"
An arm on a shoulder and duck between layers of cammo and window. "See those headlights?" She nodded once she did. "That's a convoy. Country-style, but a convoy no less."
Tires and headlights had replaced a dark night sky's stars and roaming lights in the view from a dug out/fox hole. "Snug in there?" The two people were sucking the juice out of a mango. "Put these on as soon as you can." Two helmets came off the stack. "She had no idea anybody even ever heard of her. Let alone considered her what they called her."
Lips smacked and a belch. "The Queen of War Correspondence."
"I think it's too soon. So keep your eyes on her."
"She gets mean when people express care. Trust me."
"Care anyway. And come home to me."
"Thanks," a St. Christopher metal held close to a lightstick glow. The person repeated, "Come home to me."
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