“He’s gone.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t answer.”

So I started a notebook.

I wrote to Walter about the convoy, about Wayne, about the sleepless nights I still had sometimes when a sound pulled me back overseas.

I wrote about being frightened in the courtroom despite the uniform, and how odd it felt to have strangers call me brave while the people who raised me called me selfish.

I wrote about Buster stealing a sandwich from the counter.