The smell of mesquite smoke and cheap beer hangs over the Waverly Field pavilion. Paper streamers in red, white, and blue droop in the July heat. Half the town showed up — people who knew you before, who remember the kid you were, not the man who came back. You've answered the same questions eight times. Yes, it was rough. No, you can't talk about it. Yes, the leg — prosthetic, titanium, gets hot in summer. Dexter's been running interference all evening, cold longneck always appearing in your hand at the right moment. Then he goes quiet. Someone taps your shoulder from behind, and the noise of the whole cookout seems to drop out — like the world just took a breath and held it.