Page 50 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Once a year, whether they’re needed or not.”
“You’re getting what you get, soldier.”
“Former soldier.” Indicating her civvie jeans and UVA sweatshirt.
As I assembled sandwiches, Katy took a chair at the table. Her drumming fingers suggested this wasn’t an idle visit. She had something on her mind.
I set two placemats and centered a plate on each. Added napkins and went to the fridge for sodas.
When I sat, Katy checked the contents of her bread. “This is ham,” she said. “I wanted tuna.”
One of my fingers saluted her proudly.
We ate in congenial silence. She got to it when we’d finished.
“Listen, I’m sorry about last night.” Eyes avoiding mine. “I acted mental.”
“It’s all right.” Not disagreeing.
“No, it’s not. You were helping me, and I was bitchy.”
“Want some fruit?”
“No, thanks.”
I took a banana from the basket I’d displaced to one side. Peeled it.
“Preparing for the apocalypse?” Katy asked, idly observing my laptop.
“What does that mean?”
“Armageddon. The end of life as we know it.” Waggling splayed fingers.
“I know what apocalypse means. I don’t understand your question.”
“The firestarter.” Cocking her chin at the screen.
“Hold on.” I pointed at the image. “That little thing is a firestarter?”
She nodded. “Are you compiling a kit?”
“A kit?”
“A survivalist kit.” The green eyes rolled. “Jesus, Mom. I was asking if you’re becoming a prepper.”
“Let’s back up. That’s a firestarter?”
Katy nodded.
“How does it work?”
She pointed to the cylinder. “That’s a ferro rod.” The flat piece. “That’s a multifunction tool. You use the ruled edge to measure stuff, calculate scale on maps, that sort of thing. The cutout is a hexagonal box wrench. It’ll also remove bottle caps. The serrated end is for making tinder shavings from sticks.”
“Then you scrape the rod to ignite the shavings.”
“Roger that.”
“Who owns these things?” I asked.
