"We missed you every single day."
He believed her. He would think about that later, how completely he believed her right then, and he would decide it hadn't been foolish, because it was probably true.
He set Owen on his feet and stayed kneeling so they were eye to eye. A thin ball chain showed at the boy's collar. Daniel hooked a finger under it and drew it out: one of his spare dog tags, the stamped steel worn soft at the edges from eleven months against a child's skin. HARLAN DANIEL W. The morning he left, in this same spot, he had hung it around Owen's neck and given him a mission, because a mission was the only thing Daniel knew how to hand someone that made them stand up straighter. He tucked the tag back under the hoodie and smoothed the fabric over it.
"So tell me, soldier… did you protect Mom and the house while I was gone?"