Gerald wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and whispered a name.

“Thomas Grayson.” My father did not move.

“You know this old man?” Trent asked, still not understanding.

Gerald pressed himself back against the wall as though he wanted to pass through it.

“Everyone who survived Fallujah,” he said, “knew Grayson.” I had only ever heard fragments — my father never spoke of the war, spent his days with engines and stray cats and lived so quietly he seemed to disappear into the ordinary.

But I had noticed, over the years, the way old veterans at the local parades would hush and step aside when he passed, the way something like reverence would cross their weathered faces.