Black, worn smooth at the edges from a life it had lived long before this quiet one.

A silver eagle on one face, above three words: VANGUARD NEVER DIES.

And on the other face, engraved small, a telephone number I had memorized two decades ago and had never once dialed, because dialing it meant waking everything I had put to sleep.

I stood in that hospital hallway and turned the coin over in my fingers and I thought hard about what I was doing.

Because I knew my old men.