The squealing came from the three year old, anxiously looking out the window for the headlights. His father and I exchanged uneasy glances. It had been three days since the calvary rode into town. They came in their tanks, supposedly bringing food and water to those trapped inside their homes due to the layers of ice on the roads. But the tanks skidded off the sides of the roads, and instead barreled over yards, crashing into anything that stood in their way.
We should have been happy, I suppose, if they were bringing reinforcements. It’s not every day you are saved by your own military. But something about it had us exchanging uneasy glances. A gut feeling, perhaps.
My husband insisted the toddler and I stay out of sight when they came to our door. But he was too excited, and he sprinted out towards his father.
“Ah, what a good young tyke,” the soldier exclaimed, patting him on the head. “So you have a child and a wife to feed as well, then,” the soldier said, handing my husband two extra bags of flour and eggs. “Take care, then,” he said, waving as he slid back down the driveway to his waiting humvee.
My husband closed the door, after waving and smiling his thanks himself. He brought the bags into the kitchen as the first round of gunfire went off.