We sat at my kitchen table, and Colonel Reeves opened his folder. He laid a yellowed photograph beside the velvet case. Two young soldiers, one carrying the other across his shoulders through thick smoke. “That is your husband, Mrs. Prescott,” he said quietly. “And the man on his back is my father, Lieutenant Henry Reeves.” My hands went cold. In fifty-three years, Raymond had never told me he carried anyone anywhere.

“My father passed away last month,” the colonel continued. “He left one instruction. Find the man who saved him, and give his family this.” He slid a sealed envelope across the table. My name was written on it in a hand I did not know. Behind me, a wine glass shattered in the hallway. Colonel Reeves turned toward Colleen and said, “Ma’am, I believe you are the one who put this medal in a donation box.”