“I’ll send you one,” I said.
His shoulders loosened.
“Thank you.”
Then I added, “But not the official command photo.”
“Why not?”
“I look terrifying.”
“You always look terrifying.”
“Goodbye, Dad.”
He laughed.
I drove back to Washington with my grandfather’s compass on the passenger seat.
Monday morning, I arrived at work before seven.
At nine, General Harrington called.
He was technically no longer in my direct chain of command, which allowed him to dispense advice with the enthusiasm of a man who would not have to complete any associated paperwork.
“You’re taking the assignment,” he said.
It was not a question.
“I haven’t decided.”
Silence.
Then, “Really?”
“Surprising?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“I’ve known you twelve years.
You treat difficult assignments like other people treat restaurant reservations.”
I laughed.
He continued.
“What changed?”
I looked at the compass beside my computer.
