Chapter 8

The official vehicle arrived at the lake house at 0700 on Thursday, exactly on schedule, rolling down the gravel road with its headlights off through the grey dawn. The soldier behind the wheel — the same young one from the night of the gathering, the same close-cropped hair, the same professional stillness — put the vehicle in park at the end of the driveway, killed the engine, and sat in the cab with the engine ticking as the world lit up around him.

Dana was ready. Her duffel bag — the same scuffed canvas one, the one Carla had mocked, the one that had traveled through eleven years of deployments and duty stations and quiet returns — sat on the porch steps with the framed photograph of two children on a dock balanced on top. Uncle Pete stood by the door, wearing a clean plaid shirt, the reader glasses finally on his nose rather than his forehead, a thermos of coffee in his hand.

"Forty-one years," he said, "and I still haven't figured out how you do that."

"Do what?"

"Look like you're going off to war and coming home for Sunday brunch at the same time."

Dana smiled. It was a real smile, the kind that had been rare in this house for a decade.

"That's the job, Pete. You learn to carry both."

Down the drive, the soldier had gotten out of the vehicle and now stood at the door, waiting. He did not call out. He did not approach. He stood at a respectful distance, a man who knew better than to rush a Colonel's goodbye.