The Mercedes stood in the garage beneath a thin film of dust. It was a midnight-black performance sedan with dark honey-colored seats, a vehicle Faith had purchased after her promotion with money carefully saved over many years. Friends teased her about buying something so luxurious while remaining incapable of replacing a kitchen toaster until it stopped working entirely. Faith always answered that the car was unnecessary and that, after three decades of necessary things, she had allowed herself one unnecessary pleasure.
She had earned the money legally, saved for the purchase deliberately, and paid the bill without borrowing. The car represented no secret wealth and no mysterious arrangement, simply the accumulated choices of a woman who had worked for decades and rarely taken time to enjoy what she earned. She washed it herself on weekends when time permitted and kept a small notebook tracking its service history. She liked its quiet engine, the clean stitching of the seats, and the uncomplicated fact that it belonged to her.
Before leaving, Faith packed the trunk with a garment bag, a Bible that had belonged to William, and a floral photo album Evelyn had asked her to bring. The birthday gift went into a bag with pink and yellow tissue, while a small cooler held the homemade pound cake Faith had baked the previous night using her mother's recipe. She had been nervous about the cake because baking always brought out the part of her that wanted to control variables nobody could control. Evelyn had once told her that a cake was allowed to be a little crooked as long as the person who made it had remembered whom it was for.
The telephone rang while Faith was fastening the cooler lid. Denise Whitfield asked whether the route was confirmed and whether Faith still wanted to drive herself. Faith answered yes to both questions, smiling at the familiar habit of a talented officer who approached even personal travel as a problem of logistics. Whitfield had an official stop to make farther west that morning, and the two had agreed they would travel the same general corridor and exchange a brief message after reaching their destinations. It was the kind of arrangement made by people who had worked together long enough to care without calling it concern.
"No convoy, Denise," Faith said. "No schedule on a clipboard and no one saluting at a gas station."
"Understood, ma'am," Whitfield replied. "Just text when you reach Elton."
"I will. And if you call my mother to ask whether I arrived, I'll deny knowing you."
Whitfield laughed, and for an instant the rigid distinction between general and colonel gave way to something more ordinary. Then she wished Faith a good day, and they ended the call.