He worked the ribbon up over his head, both thumbs under the blue band, chin tipped so the brass wouldn’t swing into the paint.

“You can wear it home,” Claire said.

“It’ll scratch.” He folded it into his sweatshirt and set it on the back seat like something with a shell.

“Eli already nicked his on the railing.”

Eli came across the lot walking backward, holding his medal up to the lamp post.

“That’s not a nick.

That’s a stamp.”

“It’s a dent.”