died. The official one. The one that sits on the mantel in the living room, next to the folded flag.
Caleb doesn’t remember his father’s face. He was two. But he’s memorized that photograph.
And I was standing in front of him in the same uniform.
I knelt down in front of him.
My knees cracked. Both of them. Loudly. Caleb almost laughed.
“Your dad looked like me, son,” I said. “Not the other way around.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Now get your blazer straight,” I said. “We’ve got a breakfast to go to.”
Caleb stared at me.
“But the note,” he said. “The note said—”
“I know what the note said,” I said.
“Dr. Prentiss said grandparents aren’t allowed.”
“I know.”
“Grandpa,” Caleb said. “You’re going to get in trouble.”
I stood up. Slowly. My knees cracked again.
“Son,” I said. “I’ve been in trouble with better men than Dr. Prentiss.”
