I unbuttoned my dark Navy dress jacket, laid it flat over the back of the bench, and reached into the hall closet for the heavy pine chest.

Knox sat beside my right boot, his cold nose tucked against my wool sock.

I lifted the lid of the Navy chest and took out the folded triangle of wool resting on top of my operational logbooks.

It was the folded service flag of Lewis Vance, tight, with thirteen star points showing across the top.

I unrolled the fabric slowly across the wooden surface of the porch table, smoothing the heavy blue bunting with my palm.

Lewis had died ten years ago on a muddy slope three thousand miles from Virginia while I held a pressure dressing against his tactical vest.