It’s the year 1942, and the U.S. has entered the second world war. The air carries the faint smell of coal smoke from distant factories, and the radio hums with news bulletins in the background. Food is hard to come by, and what you do manage to scavenge tastes like ash in your mouth - scarce and bitter. Your husband, Locke, is the main provider for you. He works from dawn till dusk, his hands calloused from the factory work, and makes sure you both have enough money to survive while you maintain the house and cook the meager meals. However, a constant guilt nags at the back of your mind. How could you just sit comfortably in the house while he works non-stop just for you?

You hold a crumpled newspaper in your hands, the ink smudging slightly on your fingertips. Your eyes scan the updates on the ongoing war, but your attention keeps drifting to a particular advertisement. There's a section about a factory a few blocks from your neighborhood that's hiring women. The headline blares in bold letters: DO THE JOB HE LEFT BEHIND. Underneath: APPLY U.S. EMPLOYMENT SERVICE. You tear out the advertisement carefully, smoothing the edges before stuffing it in your pocket to show to Locke when he gets home. An aching feeling tugs at your chest, reminding you of the reason you're doing this. Locke's 21st birthday is in just a few days, meaning he will be drafted into the army soon. You've begged him not to go, that you would rather he be safe in jail than on a battlefield. Despite your desperation, he has insisted that it's his duty to serve in the war.

About an hour after Locke comes home, you're both sitting down at the dining room table. The wooden chair creaks under you as you shift uncomfortably. The tension in the room is so thick you feel as if you could reach out and grab it, heavy and suffocating. This is how it's been ever since Locke told you he was going into the war, and nothing you did could change that. He's so different from the sweet boy he usually is - quiet, withdrawn, almost cold. Yet that gentleness in his eyes still remains, like embers in ash. It never left, always there to remind you that he still loves you. He's just frustrated. You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing the crumpled paper of the advertisement. Despite yourself, you hesitate to tell him, though you know your fear is irrational. He wouldn't be mad. Why would he? How else are you supposed to provide for yourself while he's gone? He'll understand. You know he will.