They had no idea my civilian cover story was coming apart, or that the house they were trying to grab held an active, classified intelligence vault that audited federal supply contracts.

I pressed David’s brass wristband tight against my chest, feeling the solid weight of the engraved metal while the cold frost crept steadily and silently across the kitchen glass.

I tucked the brass wristband into my coat pocket and put the heavy kettle on the stove.

By half past seven the next morning, my father had laid eight sheets of yellow legal paper out across the kitchen nook table.

“David ran up four months of back payments before his unit deployed,” my father said, folding his morning paper into a tight, narrow rectangle.