My mother-in-law shaved my head while I slept on the very night the United States Army promoted me into one of the most important commands of my career.

Ryan clutched a metal lockbox to his chest.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“No.”

“Ryan.”

His face crumpled. “It’s mine.”

“What’s in it?”

He looked toward the stairs, toward the smoke, toward the life collapsing above us.

“My name,” he said.

For the first time since I had known him, I heard a child in his voice.

Not innocence. Not goodness. Just terror left too long in the dark.

“Ryan, listen to me,” I said carefully. “Come inside. Give me the box. We can walk upstairs together.”