Fourteen years of my life lay inside, packed into tight compartments.

I lifted out the velvet tray with my Navy SEAL deployment ribbons and commendation medals and set it carefully on the edge of the bench without reading the names engraved on the backs.

I wasn’t going to need the medals today.

I reached down into the bottom compartment and took out the thick clear plastic documentation binder I’d kept ever since leaving active service.

Beside it lay my old waterproof digital camera, its black body worn gray along the edges from salt spray.