"That's right."
"Dedo said maybe one day they come." He looked at her. Then he looked past her at the car, sitting in the road with its chrome gone pink in the last light, and back at her, and his eyes got very wide. "Mama. Did they come?"
She thought about how to answer him. She thought about the sergeant's laugh, the first one, and the third one, and the eleven seconds on the radio, and his finger on the brass. She thought about her father on a Saturday with a chamois, polishing. She thought about the card in her coat pocket.
"Somebody came," she said. "The son. Of the man who had it first."
"Is he taking it?"
"I don't know yet."
"Is he taking the car?"
"No. The car is ours. Just the medal. And he doesn't know yet." She stood up and held out her hand, and he took it, and let her pull him up off the bench, and did not let go right away, which at nine years old he usually did. "He's going to think about it."
"Is he nice?"
She opened her mouth and closed it.