They had a ritual now. Every handoff, Owen reported. He reported on school, on the spelling test, on a fight with Priya, who could now burp the whole alphabet, on the new kid from Ohio, on what Mom made for dinner, on the bird nest in the gutter that Mom said they had to leave until the babies flew away. Daniel listened to every word with the seriousness it deserved.
Today, at the end of the report, Owen got quiet and put his hand to his collar and drew out the ball chain with the dog tag. HARLAN DANIEL W. He had worn it every day for two years. It was worn smooth now, the letters nearly gone at the edges.
He asked his father, looking down at it and not at him, whether he was going to have to go away again. He had heard Mom talking on the phone. He knew Dad's battalion, his old battalion, was going back over there in the winter. He asked if Dad was going too. He asked whether he would have to protect the house again.