“Mr. and Mrs. Collins,” one of the officers said gently, “we’re deeply sorry for your loss.”
The words echoed through the hallway like something unreal. Their son Private Ethan Collins, only twenty-three years old, had been deployed overseas just six months earlier. He had called every Sunday, always sounding calm, always telling them not to worry.
Now two officers stood in their doorway.
Margaret didn’t remember falling into the chair, but suddenly she was sitting at the kitchen table while the officers explained something about an incident, about a patrol, about a fire that had spread too quickly. The words blurred together into something that barely sounded like language.
Weeks later, the family was asked to come to a quiet administrative building on the base. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room, and on it rested a small urn beside a folded flag.
Margaret stared at it for a long time.
“That’s… him?” she whispered.
