PART 1 — THE WAY HE HELD HIS ARM

The smell of burned toast did not hide the metallic scent clinging to Cameron’s winter coat.

My fourteen-year-old son sat at our yellow Formica kitchen table using only his right hand to spread margarine across a piece of toast.

His left arm stayed pressed against his ribs.

Tight.

Protective.

Wrong.

“Eat up, Cam.”

He kept his eyes on the table.

“I’m not very hungry, Dad.”

“You barely ate dinner yesterday.”

“My stomach’s just…”

He stopped.

His right thumb began drawing small circles against the center of his left palm.

He had done that since he was five whenever he was frightened and trying not to show it.

On the counter beside the breadbox sat my old brass military compass.

Three deployments.

Hundreds of miles carried inside a green canvas pouch.

After fifteen years in uniform, I had retired and moved Cameron to Dunmore because I believed a Pennsylvania town with one traffic light would be quieter than the places we had lived before.