That was the day that put the Distinguished Service Cross in a dark dresser drawer at home — a medal I hadn’t looked at in years, because it felt less like an honor and more like a permanent receipt from the worst afternoon of my life.

People who have never served tend to assume medals for bravery are proud trophies.

To a lot of us who earned them, they mean something more complicated: permanent proof of a day you wish had never happened, a day attached to a list of names — some who made it home, and some who never did.

I have never known how to feel about that medal, and I have stopped expecting to.

The country gave it to me for going back into the fire, and I understand why, and I do not think they were wrong to.

But a medal is a strange object.