In residency, I studied in a bookstore’s coffee shop, which was where a clutch of women gathered monthly for book club. They would set their library books and blueberry scones on the table. I started eavesdropping and realized that the books they read were just an excuse to talk about their own lives. Every character, every broken heart, every twist of fate inspired a story about an unruly mother-in-law, a philandering father, or the cousin who came out to his unforgiving parents. Sometimes it sounded more like a therapy session than a book discussion.

I could never join a book club.

About a year ago, I started attending book talks. I could listen and offer an anonymous comment or none at all.

The bookstore I’m going to tonight is in the middle of a downtown block, between a nail salon and a dry cleaner. I walk past the tables of new releases and the bestseller shelf, picking up a copy of the book being discussed tonight along the way. At the far end of the shop, with the local authors shelf as their backdrop, I see the author and the bookseller sitting on a small dais. I slide into one of the folding chairs toward the back of the space.

Clay Porter is a war journalist who spent time embedded with troops in Afghanistan. I check the time on my phone. Adam is running late. I asked him to join me tonight because I’m hoping this talk will be a stepping-stone to a long-overdue conversation with him. We’ll listen to Clay Porter share his experience in Afghanistan and then maybe grab some hot cocoa at the chocolatier at the end of the block, where I will tell Adam all he doesn’t know.

The owner of the shop adjusts the ruby-red frames of her glasses and flashes a smile at the small audience. Clay Porter picks up his microphone and lets it hang between his knees while she recites his biography from an oversized index card.

“As any telling of war would be, this is a tough read,” she begins. “But it’s also a portrait of courage—the men and women in uniform and the civilians in the backdrop. And you as well. You willingly put yourself on the front lines. Did you feel fearless?”

Clay is thoughtful.

“Look, there were risks, but I was more protected than the civilians. I wasn’t as much of a target as the soldiers,” he says. “And I still wouldn’t say I was fearless. I definitely felt fear. And I think all the people you mentioned felt fear too. That’s what makes it courage, I guess. Now, courage without fear? That’s just bravado.”