These moments happened to all of us, everywhere. Walking through an airport concourse, we’d meet the wistful gazes of hundreds of well-meaning citizens, and we’d know they were wondering if we were headed home or instead back to one of those far-flung deadly lands, with parents and spouses and children—some still unborn—waiting for us on front porches and stoops in all the Bellevues of America. Men patted us on the shoulder or gave us a soulful nod or a solemn salute. Some wanted to tell us that they also served, that they, too, had done their part, that they were different from the hordes of civilians who did not understand the concept of valor.

I knew these people meant well—that their respect was genuine and their gratitude sincere. Nevertheless, every time this happened to me, I felt like I was going to fucking puke.

I took his hand and shook it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, returning one of those sad smiles that Mike thought made me such a popular Casualty Notification Officer.

I held up my phone.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said.

“Remember,” the old man said. “You tell ’em we’re out here.”

He rejoined the others gathered under the hickory tree with the big yellow ribbon around it. After I called the CAO, I retreated into the house, where the Carters still sat on the couch beneath the silent television while Mike tried to act comforting.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carter,” I said, “Lieutenant Garrett will pick you up in the morning, at eight a.m. He will travel with you to Dover. We’ve reserved a room for you at the Courtyard Marriott near the airport. You’ll stay overnight and then accompany your son home to Fort Campbell the following morning. They’ve notified your eldest son as well. His CO will do what he can to get him home for a few days.”

“Will we be able to see Cody?” the mother asked.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Not at Dover. But you’ll be with him, to bring him home.”

Mrs. Carter rose from the couch. Finally, she broke. Her husband lurched up and reached for her. I heard a muffled moan, high and keening. Her husband stroked her back.

“I’ll be damned,” Mike blurted.

He pointed at the television. The Carters turned toward the screen.

Because I had seen Arch Creigh’s face on the news so many times before, it took me a moment to grasp the reason why I was looking at it now.

“What happened?” the mother asked.

“The son of a bitch shot himself,” Mike said.

There they were—Arch and Vanessa, in old footage from the day Arch declared his Senate candidacy. The camera cut to a live image, in front of the house on the Boulevard, surrounded by men with cameras, Vanessa’s face pale and slack with shock and grief.

“Charlie,” Mike said.