12:14 p.m.

The line ran down to the sidewalk. The recruiters wore Santa Claus hats. Seventeen days since Pearl Harbor. A still-brisk enlistment trade.

The desks were stationed inside now. Regional offices smoothed out the Fed Building flow. The line crawled. Parker was two hours in.

He wore civilian clothes. He brought his birth certificate. He was playing a long shot. The war spawned paperwork chaos. Call-Me-Jack’s enlistment holds might have been misplaced.

The line inched up. He still smelled Blood Alley. Wake Island couldn’t be any worse.

A women’s line flanked the men’s line. It was one-tenth as long. He had a sideways view.

Kay Lake stood three from the end. She couldn’t see him.

He was running. She was running. War enticed runners. A Filipino man stabbed a Chinese man last night. He had an alibi: “I thought he was a Jap.”

Parker hit the desk. He flashed his badge and birth certificate. The recruiter checked his P-flagged papers.

He looked up at Parker. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sir. A hold’s been filed on you. You’ve been declared ‘civilian-essential.’ ”

Parker stepped out of line. He looked at the women’s desk. Miss Lake stood there.

A recruiter said something. It was an easy read. The man said, “No, ma’am.”

Katherine, the foolish huntress. Our purpose here eludes me.