“She wanted me to call the district attorney and get the forgery charges dropped,” I said.

My father reached into his vest pocket, unhooked a heavy silver chain, and drew out a round silver pocket watch.

He laid it flat on the wooden table between our mugs, its polished case catching the soft light from the hanging lamp.

“Your mother bought me this at Fort Bragg thirty years ago,” he said, his voice sinking into a quiet register I hadn’t heard since I was twenty.

“Before she passed, she told me I’d been much too hard on you when you picked civil engineering over law school.”