Robert Peterson, a tall and solid man despite the years spent behind the wheel of a big rig, slowly rose from his seat. His movements were deliberate, confident. He wore a simple but neat suit, bought especially for this day. There was weariness in his eyes, but also an inner strength that refused to bow to circumstance. He cast a short, proud glance at his daughter, a look brimming with love, and made his way to the microphone.

Eleanor crossed her arms, a queen on her throne, ready to swat away whatever pathetic platitudes this simple man might offer. It never occurred to her that a man like him could possess a power far greater than her own.