Before the medevac helicopter lifted off the dirt pad, I promised him I would come home and keep my feet on solid ground.

I had spent six weeks fighting my own family over seven hundred feet of river frontage and forty acres of pine.

The wool felt rough and dry under my fingers, smelling faintly of old brass, canvas, and gun oil from the storage chest.

I folded the bunting back into its sharp triangle, tucking the final flap tight under the top seam until no red or white stripe showed.

I held the heavy wool triangle against my ribs for a moment, breathing in the cold, damp air coming off the salt marsh.