\u201cSir. Invitation, please.\u201d The voice was polite, but the tone was inflexible. It was the voice of a man who says \u201cno\u201d for a living.<\/p>\n
Daniel\u2019s back straightened, a reflex ingrained in him at Parris Island half a century ago. \u201cI\u2019m here for Michael Turner,\u201d he said, his own voice low and rough, sounding alien in the refined air. \u201cHe was my brother.\u201d<\/p>\n
The guard\u2019s eyes, a flat, indifferent blue, narrowed slightly. The word \u201cbrother\u201d didn\u2019t register. It was just noise. \u201cThis event is for registered family and invited officials only, sir. No exceptions.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words were like slivers of glass.\u00a0Family.<\/em>\u00a0The word echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of Daniel\u2019s mind. Michael\u00a0was<\/em>\u00a0his family, in a way these people, with their shared blood and polite dinners, could never comprehend. Family was the man who\u2019d pulled you from a burning Humvee. Family was the man who\u2019d given you his last canteen of water when your own was empty. Family was the silence you shared after a firefight, a silence that said everything that words couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
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