“That is quite enough of your ignorant noise, son.”

The voice cut through the backyard like a whip crack. Frail with age, but carrying the undeniable authority of a parade ground.

We all turned toward the fence. Standing at the gate, leaning heavily on a cane, was Colonel Vance — my mother’s eighty-year-old neighbor, in his faded USMC cap.

Tucked against his ribs he carried a heavy rectangular object under a dark velvet cloth.

Vance didn’t look at Greg. He looked at me, his eyes sad but resolute. “You hid in the shadows long enough, Sarah. I will not stand here and listen to a boy who played soldier insult a woman who walked through hell.”

He stepped onto the patio, ignoring my mother’s gasp, and set the object on the picnic table. He gripped the velvet and ripped it away.