"Good," he whispered. "Everybody knows something you don't. Rank won't change that."
The morning of the ceremony, Grace woke at six in a hotel near the edge of Warrenton. The room's heater clicked and rattled. Her uniform hung where she had placed it the night before, pressed with the care her father had once taught her to give a shirt before a job interview. She spent longer checking the arrangement of her ribbons than she did on the speech in her briefcase.
She had written the speech herself. It contained no boast about her career and no long list of military accomplishments. Most of it concerned her father, a postal route, a soldier who came home changed by war, and the difference between public praise and practical support for veterans after the applause ended. She had underlined a passage about making room for people whose service did not look the way an audience expected.
At seven-fifteen, Colonel Barrett called to confirm the day. The military liaison team had arranged parking and the route to the stage with event director Nora Fields, and a small group of uniformed personnel would be nearby for protocol assistance. Barrett was already checking the rehearsal area a few blocks away. He asked whether Grace wanted an escort from the hotel.
"I know how to find a town square, Hugh," she said. "I'll meet you near the stage after I visit the wall."
"Yes, ma'am. We'll need a status call before you go on. The duty desk has your event itinerary."
"I'll make it," Grace replied. "And ask the organizers if the color guard has breakfast. Those kids have been there since dawn."
Barrett promised he would. He had learned that when Grace asked about young volunteers, food, or the weather, those questions were not small talk. She expected an answer. He hung up and sent a staff sergeant to the coffee table with a request for additional breakfast sandwiches.
Outside, the November air felt clean and sharp. A light mist clung to the hood of Grace's vehicle, and the roads were nearly empty. She drove through streets where storefronts were just beginning to open, past brick buildings with old decorative cornices and houses whose front porches carried bright flags. The hills beyond town were a patchwork of fading autumn colors. For a moment, she felt the rare pleasure of being somewhere not measured by a briefing schedule.
The ceremony area was already busy when she arrived at 8:45. Volunteers carried folding chairs across the square. Two women argued gently about whether the coffee station should be near the portable heater or the table of pastries. A high school color guard rehearsed its entrance in the parking lot while a band director counted under his breath and shook his head at the sound system.