Then one ordinary Thursday, she had a headache at work. By Friday night, she was gone. An aneurysm, the doctors said. Nothing anyone could have done. Nothing anyone could have seen coming.
Daniel had walked through gunfire on three continents. He had pulled men out of burning vehicles. He had never once felt helpless.
Until he stood in that hospital hallway, holding a five-year-old girl who kept asking when Mommy was coming home.
He looked up at the stars now and spoke quietly.
"They found out, Sarah. I tried to keep it quiet. I really did."
The crickets answered. Nothing else.
Then a voice came from the side of the house.
"Talking to the sky is a fine habit. I do it myself most nights."
Daniel turned. Standing at the edge of the yard, leaning on a wooden cane, was the old man from the party. The one who had recognized his stance.
His name was Walter Hayes. Eighty-one years old. Vietnam, two tours, 101st Airborne. He lived alone in the gray house across the street with a flag on the porch and a garden full of tomatoes he gave away to anyone who'd take them.
"Didn't mean to intrude," Walter said. "Saw the news van. Figured you might want company that doesn't have a camera."
Daniel almost smiled.
"Come on up, Mr. Hayes."
"Walter. Mr. Hayes was my father, and he was a mean son of a gun."
The old man climbed the porch steps slowly and lowered himself into the chair next to Daniel's. He pulled two bottles of root beer out of his jacket pockets and handed one over.
"Don't drink the hard stuff anymore," Walter said. "Doctor's orders. And my late wife's orders, which were scarier."
They sat in silence for a while. It was a good silence. The kind only two men who have seen the same kind of darkness can share.
"You know," Walter finally said, "when I came home in '69, nobody wanted to hear about it. People spit at us at the airport. So I shut it all away. Didn't talk about it for thirty years."
He took a sip of root beer.
"Biggest mistake of my life. Not the war. The silence."
Daniel turned the bottle slowly in his hands.