Nuclear Shadows

Early

August 6th, 1983. Saturday.

6:30 A.M.

"Lewis, wake up, you'll be late for work."

His eyes opened, blurry.

He was seeing the face of his wife, Sheila.

"Okay, honey, I'm up, I'm up."

He sat up, and got dressed into his flight-suit. The name 'North' was on the patch. He brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and walks into the dining room for breakfast. He has a helping of pancakes and OJ, and glances over at the TV.

"...Talks between the U.S. ambassador and the Russian ambassador have broken down over last month's incident over the North Atlantic. I'm going to turn it over to our White House correspondent, Corey Nash."

"Mess, huh?" Sheila spoke up.

"Yeah, real hairy."

"Sometimes it worries me, Lewis, you're in that base, and you're always at the ready, and it just..."

"We'll be fine," he interjects.

He looks back down on his plate of blueberry pancakes, and he nods, not to her, but himself. 

He kissed his wife goodbye, and went for the door. He walked outside, taking in the fresh air. He walked into his driveway, opening up his '74 Ford Capri. He drove toward work, Grand Forks AFB.  

He turned on the radio, and flipped through a number of stations, and rested on 93.7 KBBL.

 "So bye-bye, Miss American Pie.
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye.
Singin', 'this'll be the day that I die.'
'this'll be the day that I die.'"