Evelyn Roe drove 200 miles through sleet in a rusting Ford Ranger just to be told she didn’t belong.
She was 71. Her sweater cost $3. Her boots were muddy from feeding chickens at dawn. And as she stepped toward the glowing glass VFW hall—full of dress uniforms and designer gowns—she held her breath.
She didn’t come for the music. Or the food.
She came because Mac McCaffrey had said, “This might be the last one, Eve.”
But before she could even touch the door, he stepped in front of her.
Twenty-five, maybe. Uniform so crisp it could cut glass. Eyes like scanners.
