“Thank you for your kind words about my mother,” I said in the tone one uses to respectfully address the dying.

“That painting,” he said, gesturing to the large portrait of his younger self that hung behind his desk. “Your dear mother painted that. I’ve always loved that painting. She captured a spirit I never quite saw in myself. A spirit that I’ve tried to live up to over the years.” The painting was centered on the wall behind his desk. It was flanked by numerous high school and army photos of his son, Norberto, and a shadow box displaying his assortment of ribbons and medals, including a Purple Heart. He had been KIA in the Uruzgan Province of Afghanistan. He was twenty.

The British hadn’t been able to hold it.

Neither had the Soviets.

Now it’s our turn to bleed out in the same sand where other empires have gone to die.

At the bottom right of Norberto’s memorial wall, a single high school graduation picture of Jackie was barely noticeable. Nothing that indicated she’d achieved an MBA from the University of Southern California, had authored two bestselling business books, and was often the number-one photogenic choice when Bloomberg News, Reuters TV, CNBC or Cheddar needed a brown face for stories on female entrepreneurs.

Mr. Ochoa coughed. Jackie, who had been beautifully stoic save for the occasional smile sent my way, patted him on the heaving bones of his back and offered him water. He waved it off with a skeleton’s hand. “Your father,” Mr. Ochoa rasped. His daughter held a water bottle for him, and he consented, taking birdlike sips. “He looked out for us. A good man. A police officer. There were things I said that I should never have said—”

“Señor Ochoa, forgive me for interrupting,” I said. “I’m not a priest, so may I suggest you save your confession? None of us has ever truly been the person we could have been—maybe should have been. I know I’m not. But I have the feeling that when God weighs your soul on His scales, He’ll find yours to be the exact weight of an angel’s feather.” His daughter mechanically patted one of his hands while Miss Evers gently held the other as if it were a piece of priceless china. Danny Romero just glared at me. “You’ve given people in this community good livings for over thirty years. When neighbors couldn’t afford food, you fed them. When their kids walked to school in worn-out shoes in the dead of winter, you put boots on their feet, gloves on their hands and scarves around their necks.”

“I’ve—said things—” he croaked.

“The LEGO Air Tech Claw Rig,” I said.

Everyone in the room looked at me as if I’d just floated a shiny non sequitur midair during a deathly serious moment.

“The—what?” Mr. Ochoa said.