A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.” “What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him. “Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning. “You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.” My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”
