My father reached down without taking his eyes off Ethan and lifted Noah onto his shoulder.

The brass pin on my father’s collar caught the midday sun from the window.

It was the same four-star crest shown in his official military portrait online.

“I put together a temporary budget,” Ethan said, laying the paper flat on the glass table.

“Five hundred dollars a month in child support out of my warehouse pay, plus two hundred to cover half of this hotel room.”

“You haven’t started at the warehouse yet,” I said.