The salt breeze off the Elizabeth River was cold when I turned into the driveway at Cedar Lane an hour later.

Knox got up from the top porch step, his gray muzzle lifting to catch my scent as I shut off the truck engine.

He met me at the bottom rail, pressing his head against my navy uniform trousers while I unpinned my operational medals and slipped them into my jacket pocket.

The farmhouse was completely dark, the front windows reflecting the gray late afternoon sky and the bare limbs of the big oak tree.

I walked up the porch steps and sat down on the wooden bench beside the porch table.