I unzipped my navy clutch purse on the passenger seat and took out my silver rank insignia.

The metal star felt heavy and cool against my fingers as I held it up to the light.

I laid the silver star flat on the black dashboard, right beside the restored photograph of our mother and the green station wagon.

On the passenger seat beside me rested the command bag, holding forty-three paper envelopes that had finally found their way home.

I shifted the sedan into drive and took my foot off the brake pedal.

The tires crunched over the loose gravel of the overlook as I turned back onto the open highway.

I looked in the rearview mirror once, watching the Greenfield county line marker shrink into the distance behind the trees.

The morning sun hit the glass, reflecting off the silver star on my dashboard beside the restored photograph.

In it, we were sitting on the hood of Dad’s old station wagon, eating ice cream.