The Texas heat does not merely exist; it presses against you. It is a physical weight, thick and suffocating, rising from the asphalt of the Fort Garrison parade field in shimmering waves that distort the horizon.
Standing at the edge of the VIP seating area, I felt the familiar prickle of sweat beneath the heavy wool of my navy-blue dress uniform. I didn’t mind the discomfort. It grounded me. It reminded me that I was alive, a fact that three years ago, my brother-in-law had done everything in his power to change.
I reached up, my gloved fingers brushing against a small, irregular piece of metal pinned just above my rows of ribbons. It wasn’t a standard military decoration. It was a jagged, fire-scorched piece of a dog tag. Specialist Miller.
It was charred black, smelling faintly of old brass and phantom smoke. I had dug it out of the sand in the Korengal Valley after the medevac finally arrived—three hours late, because Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Hayes had ordered our support element to retreat to cover his own command post.