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Late September. The last of the summer heat presses down on me.

The air is still, humid.

I slip off my shirt press on.

Thunder is in the distance, and I go on the worn dirt path that parallels the old abandoned railroad tracks. The path takes me to her, and her blue house set back from those old abandoned railroad tracks.

I leave the trees of the forest and see her wash pegged to the sagging cord strung between two lone trees, her underwear and cotton dresses and coveralls blow phantom-like in what little wind the sky offers.

And, up on the wide wooden deck at the back of her blue house, she sits in an old rocking chair that is weathered and the paint is peeling.

I stand on the steps of the porch.

She looks down at me.

And I say nothing.

And it’s early afternoon on this September day.

And a sheen of sweat covers her bare arms and her face. She wears a sleeveless cotton dress, her arms muscular and tan.

And behind me beckons ever louder the rumble of thunder and the smell of rain.

“Storm’s coming,” she says. “Help me get my washing off the line.”

And she rises from the rocking chair and leaves the shotgun that’s been next to her the whole time.

And she laughs as she runs barefoot down the stairs and out over the sweep of lawn to the clothesline.

I unpeg her coveralls, the material rough like burlap, the familiar Ag Corps patch on the sleeves. “I got your message.”

“I’ve got a seventy-two hour pass,” she says, “then, it’s back to the rocket yards.”

I nod.

The first drops of cold rain splatter on my naked back.

We finish taking down the wash. The rain begins in earnest and the lightening flashes across the sky. The air is fresh, clean with the purging rain and the rush of ozone over us.

She laughs again.

We run back to the porch. She sets the wash basket down.

“Want a drink?” she says.

“Please.”

She slips through the screen door that bangs shut behind her.

I watch the rain crescendo, the gutters along the porch overflowing.

She comes back out on the wooden porch. She’s carrying a bottle and two glasses.

“How’s the work?” I say.

She sits down in the rocking chair. “Good! It’s hard, though. Tests your body. Neutronic welding takes it out of me. But, I tell you…”

She pours the gin into the glasses half full of ice.

“What?”

She puts the bottle down and hands me a glass and raises hers to toast. “Cheers.”

The squall line is now past us. The rain down to a drizzle. The thunder distant.

She takes a long sip. “I tell you. Those rockets. The ones I’m working on. They are overwhelming. The size of them. The core of the translight engine is huge.”

“Wow,” I muster. “Sounds exciting.”

She frowns. “Don’t be mad. Each of us has a job to do. So all of us will survive.”

“I know, I know,” I say, “but, I’m working the fields. You’re actually doing something that matters. I wish I was smart like you. An Engineer Rate.”

“Drink your gin,” she says. “I entered the lottery. For a chance to get one of those tickets they offer.”

“To off planet?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Ah,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just a bit of a surprise. That’s all.”

The air is cold from the rain. Neither of us are able to talk through the chill now between us.

“Com’ on,” she says. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a can of beans and a bit of ham. Maybe even a bit of bread. You know me and cooking.”

This makes me laugh. “A sumptuous banquet.”

She forces a smile. She rises from the rocking chair and walks, cat-like with her bare feet, across the porch to the old screen door.

She stands at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder to me.

“What happens if you win the lottery?” I say. “Will you leave?”

“You’re shivering,” she says. “Come inside and get warm.”

Almost mechanically, I move to the door. And her.

“You never were able to resist my canned beans,” she says.