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had spanked me was after I did an experiment to see whether a little rock the size of a nickel could break a window if you threw it really hard from close up. The answer was yes, if a five-inch crack in the glass counted. That got me three swats. But that time Mom hadn’t cried or said she didn’t know what she was going to do with me. All she did was laugh and say, “Your father is going to love this.”
    So it stood to reason that the punishment for stealing would be greater — maybe even six or more swats. But it also depended on Dad’s mood. If this was one of those days when he came home angry, it could be even worse.
    â€œWhy did you do it?” He sounded calm and reasonable, so I felt a little hopeful. The truth was, I didn’t know why I’d done it. Hunger had played a part. And Ronnie had said I’d be a chicken if I didn’t do it.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œBut you knew it was wrong.”
    I nodded and felt a tiny bit encouraged; he didn’t seem all that angry.
    â€œDo you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked.
    â€œRonnie said it wouldn’t matter because tomorrow the Russians might drop the bomb and we’d all be dead.”
    To be honest, I didn’t think that was such a good excuse, but it was the best I could come up with. At that point, if I’d had to estimate how many swats I was going to get once Dad changed clothes, I would have guessed around five. But Dad didn’t move. He blinked, then blinked again. “Stay here,” he said, then left the room.

“Is there any water at all?” Mrs. Shaw asks. In the dim light, her eyes are glittery.
    Dad shakes his head.
    â€œAnd if we go up there to get some . . . ?”
    â€œWe have to wait as long as we can before leaving the shelter,” Dad says.
    â€œMaybe it’s not as bad as you think,” Mr. McGovern suggests.
    â€œA bomb went off close by,” Dad says. “We saw the flash and heard the blast winds.”
    â€œBut we don’t
really
know,” Paula’s dad stresses.
    Dad glances at Mom again. On her cheek are a few streaks of dark dried blood. “I’ll check the levels.” He takes the flashlight and gets up.
    â€œCan I come?” Sparky asks anxiously.
    â€œNo, it could be dangerous.”
    I put my arm around Sparky’s scrawny shoulders. “We’ll stay here.”
    Dad gets a small box labeled FAMILY RADIATION MEASUREMENT KIT . Inside is a tubelike thing about the size of a fountain pen. He goes around the shield wall and into the narrow corridor on the other side.
    Without the flashlight, it gets darker in the shelter. We watch the shadows and light in the gap where the shield wall ends and listen as Dad climbs the metal rungs up to the trapdoor.
    A few moments later, he returns. “It’s four hundred ninety-seven roentgens under the door. That’s what’s getting
through
a quarter inch of iron plate, which means it’s even worse on the other side.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” asks Mrs. Shaw.
    â€œAnything over fifty roentgens will cause radiation sickness. Anyone who goes out there will be sick within hours and dead within days.”

When Dad came back into the bedroom, he was still wearing his suit and wasn’t carrying the paddle. “We’re going to the Lewandowskis’.”
    â€œNoooo!” I wailed, instantly filled with a different sort of dread; the only thing worse than physical pain was the pain of embarrassment. Now I knew where he’d gone when he left the room — to call Mrs. Lewandowski.
    â€œYes,” Dad said firmly. “I want you to apologize.”
    â€œCan’t I call?”
    â€œIn person.” Dad’s tone invited no more arguing.
    This was the worst, most humiliating thing ever. Not only because I’d have to apologize to Mrs. Lewandowski, but because Linda was pretty and blond . . . and I had a crush on