Chapter 3

Caleb retreated into himself. The bright, hopeful kid I knew disappeared, replaced by a shadow who spent all day in his darkened room. He wouldn't eat. He wouldn't talk. The crutches stayed propped in the corner, untouched. He just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The medical bills started arriving, one after another, each envelope a fresh wave of panic. I worked double shifts at the garage, my hands raw and my body aching, but it was like trying to fill the ocean with a bucket.

One night, I went into his room. He was awake, his eyes tracking a spider on the ceiling.

"Dad?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"I'm here, son."

Tears started to slide from the corners of his eyes, tracing paths through the dust on his cheeks.

"Mom always said to stand up to bullies. She was a hero. She fought bad guys."

His voice broke.

"Why do the bad guys always win?"

His question hit me harder than any physical blow. I was his father. I was supposed to protect him, to show him that good triumphs over evil. And I was failing. Completely.

"They don't, Caleb," I said, my own voice thick with emotion I was trying to hide. "They don't always win. I promise you. We're going to fix this."

He just turned his head away, a silent dismissal. He didn't believe me. How could he, when I barely believed it myself?

Later that night, I was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by a mountain of bills I couldn't pay. I felt a crushing sense of failure, a hollow ache where my pride used to be. My hand brushed against the velvet box on the table.

I opened it and stared at the Medal of Honor, its bronze star catching the dim light. It felt heavy, a symbol of a courage and sacrifice I couldn't seem to find in myself.

And then I remembered.

Six years ago. The funeral. The perfectly folded flag. The sea of dress uniforms. And General Miller, Maria's commanding officer, a man with a chest full of ribbons and eyes that held a deep, profound sadness. He had knelt in front of a ten-year-old Caleb and me.

He had pressed this very box into my hands.

"Your wife was a hero who gave everything for this country," he had said, his voice firm but gentle. "We will never forget that. If you or your son ever need anything-anything at all-you call me. We don't leave our own behind."

It was a memory I had buried under years of grief and grinding poverty. A promise from another world.

It was a fading hope, maybe no hope at all. But it was the only one I had left.