The driver of a long, green army stock trailer stopped for the night at the Portland International livestock barns. He unloaded and stabled his load of horses in the same stalls that had recently housed Japanese American families until internment camps were ready. The next morning, the driver called the post with his anticipated arrival time. Jane was notified by a Coast Guardsman to be at the barn at 10:00 a.m.
Right on time, the stock trailer pulled up to the barn. Jane had been waiting in front of the barn for not more than ten minutes, but long enough to chew her right thumbnail down to the nub. She dropped her hand to her side as the truck and trailer approached. She remained where she was standing until it came to a stop.
“Hey, young man,” the truck driver said out his window. “I’ve got a load of horses for the Coast Guard. Do ya know who’s takin’ delivery?” he asked in a voice both flat and indifferent.
“I am, sir,” Jane said, pleased that he had called her “young man.”
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