muster for decorating a themed holiday social or graduation dance. Alberta frowned and said, âDoesnât look like it would withstand a strong gust of wind,â then strode toward the door-less entrance. âI suppose it would be underground, Mother, not just sitting there on somebodyâs front lawn,â Winston replied. Winston could not say for sure. He remembered that Cameron McKay had touched on the topic during one of his staff room harangues. Was it that a shelter had to be at least ten feet below the surface or that they must spend ten days underground before it was once again safe to creep back outside into the light? Winston clearly recalled that the chemistry teacher had claimed that people would fry âthe image of sputtering bacon in a cast iron skillet had instantly leapt up in his mindâbut was hazy about the details. Heâd never spent many minutes worrying about it. The Bend was so far away from any place that might look tempting to those Fate-like bomber pilots speeding through the heavens: why waste effort on flat farmland? Even the schoolâs Safety Committeeâstudent welfare watchdogs Delilah Pierce and Cameron McKay had combined forces at the tail end of the Korean War and no one had joined up sinceâhad deemed atomic bomb drills unnecessary. The pair would meet at the beginning of each school year and then immediately afterward offer their assessment in the staff room, always closing with a proviso: âPending political developments.â Winston believed their caution was actually paranoia. A pretty young blonde woman approached them just after Alberta stepped outside the shelter. She smiled and bade them âGood afternoon.â As she handed a pamphlet to Alberta, Winston noticed her gloves were coloured a rosy pink. The blonde said, âItâs going to be the death of all,â and moved toward another clutch of pedestrians. There was no anger or hysteria in her voice; her forget-me-not eyes suggested calmness and focus. She seemed matter-of-fact, her certainty unruffledâas though she had just studied the approaching clouds and her years of expertise had let her determine with unquestionable authority that rain would fall any minute. All of her faculties were intact, clearly. Like the Jehovahâs Witnesses with their end of the world proclamations who used to visit Wilson ManorâAlberta had shooed them away rudely enough that they had apparently decided that the Wilsons were beyond salvationâthis young lady had permanently made up her mind about a singular idea. No amount of evidence to the contrary would seep into her peculiar awareness of the world. Winston granted that she had greater cause for worry than those door-to-door evangelists with their predictions of the imminent arrival of the Four Horsemen that once uttered were then regularly revised. Even so, it was possible to err too far on the side of caution. The poor girl might end up like a mole living in a windowless basement. âWell,â Alberta exclaimed, and showed him the folded paper. Its message was deadpan, as though typed by a dour scientist: indisputable data for the reader to considerâ You live in a target area. You must get beyond this 20 mile limit to be reasonably safe. A long list of related facts filled the sheet. An address had been printed on the back. Readers were implored to contact their local political leaders. Winston could not imagine what one would say should he decide to write a letter. The likelihood of any local politician getting riled up about the threat of nuclear bombs looked remote: what could he hope to accomplish, after all? The matter would be out of his league. âNow thereâs a fine reason not to take that job at the Hudsonâs Bay,â Alberta remarked. âUnless of course Baileyâs Farm is also a target. Those damned strawberries. Then weâll be done for.â She slipped the pamphlet into her