The rusty master key to the family house lay on the kitchen island exactly where my father had left it before he died.

I set a stack of ceramic coffee mugs down beside it as I finished emptying the second cardboard box from my move.

I scrubbed the granite counter with a damp cloth, working at a stubborn ring of dried coffee by the sink.

It was zero eight hundred on a Tuesday, the first morning of my pre-command leave.

Behind me the window air conditioner droned loudly, fighting the heavy South Carolina humidity pushing against the glass.

“There you go, cap,” Glenn said. My little brother came into the kitchen carrying his insulated travel mug. He helped himself to a cup of my fresh coffee without asking, then pushed a stapled stack of papers across the granite.

He had on a faded polo shirt and the same smirk he’d worn since high school.

“What’s this?” I asked. “A commercial lease addendum for the hardware store,” Glenn said.

“Just sign the thing, kiddo. It’s only a formality for the landlord.”

I dried my hands on a dish towel and picked up the document.

The pages felt thick and heavy in my hand.

“You own the store,” I said.

“Why would you need my signature?”

“The new landlord wants family guarantors on every renewal,” Glenn said.