calling.
By evening, national outlets were requesting interviews.
I declined every one of them.
The story wasn’t about me.
It wasn’t about rank.
It wasn’t even about the medal.
It was about a little boy who deserved protection.
Two days later, Ethan finally called.
I almost didn’t answer.
But I did.
“Claire?”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“What do you want, Ethan?”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
Those words should have felt satisfying.
Instead, they felt late.
“I know,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “You don’t.”
His voice
