She studied my uniform. “Are you a police officer?”

I smiled. “No.”

“Are you a soldier?”

“I am.” Her eyes moved over my ribbons and insignia. “But that isn’t really why I’m here today,” I added.

She tipped her head. Children know how to wait when an answer feels incomplete. “Then who are you?”

I considered the question. I thought of my father on the porch, his iced tea leaving a ring on the wood — the uniform is a promise you made to something bigger than yourself. I thought of Harold Weiss and his worn satchel, three copies of the evidence hidden across two states.