My Atomic Paradise

In an atomic diaspora the government moved Ellenton lock, stock, and barrel outside the site, a disruptive event like few others.

I was stocking shelves with canned soup at Mr. Clifford’s country store earning 25 cents an hour when a man said, “Yeah, he got a job at the bum plant.”

“He,” I figured, “must be a hobo,” and I imagined a place where drifters worked, which meant they weren’t bums after all. As the Cold War escalated, a teacher discussed Los Alamos and the prettiest girl …