Alex added, “Oliver, no one turns down the Medal of Honor. No one. Hell, a lot of soldiers who get it are dead.”

“I’m not turning it down. That would be a dishonor to everyone who earned it. But I just want them to withdraw the offer. They made a mistake.”

“Mistake, hell. You earned it,” Finn said. “I read your record, Oliver.”

“Maybe I did deserve it. Back then. And back then I would have accepted it. But I don’t deserve it now. And for me to take it would dishonor the memory of every soldier who was awarded it.”

Annabelle said, “Oliver, please, don’t do this. Think about it. You’ll be a part of American history. How many people get a shot at that?”

“I already am a part of American history, Annabelle. I know what I did on that battlefield. And I did it because I couldn’t let my men die. But I also know very clearly what I did after I left the army. Very clearly. And that’s the difference.”

“But you were just following orders,” said Alex.

“Sheep follow blindly. We’re not supposed to be sheep.”

Caleb went over to Stone and put a hand on his shoulder. “I never served in the military, so I can’t really speak to any of that. But I do want to say one thing. I was very proud of you when they offered you the medal. But I think I’m even prouder of you for not accepting it.”

After they all left, saying they would be back soon, Stone took the box out that he had kept the recording in. It also contained two other items.

He looked first at the photo of his baby daughter, Beth, who had grown up and then died never knowing that he was her father. Then he turned to the other faded picture.

In this image his wife Claire was suspended forever as a young wife and mother. In his mind every day it was Claire Carr who kept him going. In that prison while Tyree and his men were brutalizing him it had been her memory to which he’d clung.

He could never part with that image because in a visceral way it was the only shred of identity he had left. It was the one memory that kept alive the spirit of a young soldier, husband and father named John Carr. Not the assassin, not the killer. Just him, or who he used to be.

With his fingers he touched her hair, her face, skated along the line of her mouth. She and his daughter had been the only good things in a life that otherwise had been filled with scars and hurt and violence.

And yet memories of them were enough to take away all of it. Gone, like the cleansing force of the purest water.

He sat in the chair holding his wife and daughter.