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let myself out,” he added over his shoulder.
    When the front door had closed behind the cop, Sister Angela said, “Ooh, I am so mad right now.”
    â€œNot . . . at me . . . I hope,” Pete said.
    Quickly, she shook her head.
    â€œNo, of course not. I don’t care what that officer said, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
    â€œI don’t have a permit . . . for that gun.”
    â€œWell, technically that may not be legal, but as far as I’m concerned, you earned the right to do whatever you please as long as you don’t hurt anyone else. You helped save this country. In fact, you helped save the entire world.”
    Pete liked hearing that. Not many people seemed to remember those things anymore. World War II was ancient history. He said proudly, “I did . . . didn’t I?”
    Of course he hadn’t done it alone. He’d had a few million other GIs giving him a hand, spread out all the way from the South Pacific to Berlin.
    But he’d been there, too, from the bloody, screaming hell of Normandy to the frozen hell of Bastogne—“Nuts! ”—to those god-awful concentration camps they’d liberated that truly were hell on earth. He’d seen an ocean of blood spilled and had added to it himself in more than one battle. He’d been just a raw, eighteen-year-old recruit on June 6, 1944, when he went ashore on Omaha Beach, and a seasoned veteran of nineteen when the war in Europe ended less than a year later.
    By then, his eyes were a lot older than that when you looked into them. A thousand years older.
    But when it was over, he’d come home and got on with his life, like most of the guys who had been overseas with him. He had worked, married, raised a family, seen his kids move away, buried his wife, married again, buried that wife as well, and kept on keepin’ on until the stroke meant that he couldn’t anymore.
    These days, sure, he was just playing out the hand he’d been dealt and waiting for the game to be over. He knew that, but even so, he was damned if he was going to let some punk bust into his place and steal his stuff and maybe try to kill him.
    Life might not be what it once was, but anybody who tried to take it from him was gonna get a fight.
    His thoughts had wandered off. They did that a lot these days. Sister Angela was talking again. He forced his attention back onto her and heard her say, “. . . guest room, all right, Peter?”
    â€œWhat? I’m sorry.”
    She smiled, never losing her patience with him.
    â€œI said I’d stay in the guest room tonight, so you won’t be here alone.”
    â€œI’m used to . . . bein’ alone.”
    â€œYes, but we won’t be able to get that door repaired until tomorrow, and you don’t need to be here by yourself.”
    Yeah, like a twenty-six-year-old nun who weighed maybe 110 pounds was gonna be much help in a fight, he thought.
    He shook his head stubbornly and said, “No, you . . . go on home. I’ll be . . . fine.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œI’m . . . positive.” He tried to make his tone firm enough that she’d know there was no use arguing with him.
    â€œWell . . . all right. I might be able to fix the doorknob enough to keep the door shut for tonight,” she went on, “and we can prop a chair under it for added security. Then tomorrow morning I’ll call someone to repair it and the gate.”
    â€œIt’ll be . . . expensive.”
    â€œDon’t worry about that. I can take care of it if I need to.”
    â€œI thought nuns were . . . poor.”
    â€œWell, it’s true that I’m not rich in anything except faith and friendship, but we’re not as poverty-stricken as people always think we are.”
    â€œI guess . . . I appreciate it, then, Sister . . . everything you’re doin’ for me.”
    â€œI’m happy to do it. Will you be all right while I