The most peculiar aspect is what she says to him.

Last Tuesday, I caught her whispering, “Colonel, you’re late. The envelope went to the wrong sister.”

I laughed, thinking it was a memory slip—she only had one sister.

But then she looked straight at me and said, “I meant the sisterhood. The other V.”

She tugged the corner of her lap blanket. Embroidered on it, by her knee, was a single letter: V.