The cat lady salutes her across the lane. “Did you hear about the new law?” she asks. “They want to conscript women! Women, my goodness.” Her cellophane sacks with empty cans tremble as she speaks.
“Me? A soldier?” Olena gasps, “I’m fifty seven for heaven’s sake!”
Grey February dawn shakes her off her sleep with blasts and sirens, shattering her dreams to pieces. The President forgot his tie as he announces Russians invaded Ukraine and, pale but determined, urges everyone to keep calm.
“Bloody hell,” Olena snatches her passport and dials the draft board, “I’m fifty seven. Where can I get a gun?”
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