Before I left home, my father had pulled me aside under the awning of his old cabin and pressed a hundred-dollar bill in my hand. He kissed my cheek and told me, “Don’t be too proud to come back home, you hear?” Another voice rings in my ears. Rugged. Deep. A voice I’ve clung to the last six years, but foolishly ignored. “Pull it together,” I tell myself, running a shaky palm over my stomach. Reaching over, I grab the dog tag from the broken lock box on the passenger seat and slip the chain around my neck.
