I looked out over the forty miles of clean, sweet lake water where my grandfather’s memory, my uniform’s honor, and my sons’ true future had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Grandpa Arthur,” Adrian whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“Arthur is laughing.”
“David is running.”
“Garrett is home.”
“The uniform held true.”
“The ledger is closed.”
“And around here…”
We stood up from the chairs, holding Arthur, David, Sarah, Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David’s hands toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the valley chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“…nobody ever, ever… audits an auditor again.”
Barnaby let out a soft, contented sigh on the porch rug, his tail thumping once against the cedar boards: thump.
Garrett laughed into the warm sunlight.
