The stranger put his hands on her again. She turned her head and thought of her son, George, off to France and happy--full of life. George's last letter said he would be stationed for a month in Marseille, on the Mediterranean. Her son seemed so excited, even if a little scared.

A tear rolled down her cheek. The stranger saw it, laughed, and slapped her again. His hands were rough and big. He had a scar on his cheek and a deformed head. She looked at the gap between his teeth and he hit her.

She turned away and stared at the back of a picture frame. The picture, even though she couldn't see it, was of George. A picture of her son in a football outfit, the heavy shirt stretched on his broad shoulders, the leather pads on his hips jutting out of his pants, his hair a little wild and his boyish face smiling. She wanted to reach it, she tried to reach it, but the stranger wouldn't let her.

She didn't care that the stranger hurt her. She wanted to see George again. He may not return from the war. Her son might be gassed, or shot, or die of infection.

And as the stranger got up to lock the door, she only worried about receiving a flag instead of her son.