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jacket. His hand patted it secure.
    Whatever had happened to T.J., it was bad. Bad enough that the casket was gonna stay closed. But before the escort left, he and Dad went down front and the funeral director showed them the inside of the casket. I just got a glimpse before Dad turned away, blocking my view. Enough to see a crisp and perfect uniform draped over something lumpy where legs should have been. The crease in the pants was so sharp, like brand-new. Seemed stupid. No one was gonna see. But Dad liked it — not that he actually said anything.
    During the funeral, I kept having this daydream that maybe they got it wrong. Maybe T.J. was still alive, in a hospital even, but didn’t remember who he was, and this was some other guy blown so much apart that they couldn’t tell who he was, and he’d somehow ended up with T.J.’s dog tags, or he’d been near T.J. and they got confused. Anything to make this make sense.
    Some of the guys who had served with T.J. were there, in the back, and I thought about asking them, asking if it was possible. But none of them seemed to question for even a second that it was T.J. in the box, and I figured they would know.
    But then, after, Dad pulled out the bag of stuff again. Maybe he was thinking the same thing, rubbing the medallion, and the compass, one in each hand. Because T.J. never wore necklaces or went to church. And I’d never seen that stuff before.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “Some saint,” Dad said, staring at the medallion.
    “Why would —?”
    “Hell if I know why your brother does anything.”
    The conversation was over. Everything was shoved back into the bag, and it disappeared back into Dad’s pocket. Later, when Uncle Mac and Aunt Janelle came over, Dad stuck it in the top drawer of the hutch.
    After the funeral — after the hellish drive back, with half the town still waving flags on the side of the road — Dad had no need for any of the uniforms or the stuff they offered. Me neither. A few weeks after the funeral, when Dad was out of the room, CAO Cooper gave me a bunch of stuff, pamphlets and sheets, a card with a bunch of numbers on it. I said thanks but threw them away. I didn’t want to see another uniform for the rest of my life.
    But as much as the uniforms and the neighbors sucked, the strangers were the worst. They would send stuff or call; a couple even showed up at the door, with plants and ribbons. They never came twice.
    We ignored Thanksgiving. And Christmas. Somehow New Year’s sucked the hardest, knowing T.J. wouldn’t see 2007.
    The condolence letters slowed after a while but kept coming. And every one Dad dumped unopened in a box in the hall closet. Every single one. Who knows how many.
    The first few months were surreal. Some days dragged on like they were eight days long. Others flashed by like blinking in bright light. There were days where Shauna picked me up for school and dropped me off after, and an hour later I couldn’t remember a single thing that had happened in between. More than once, a teacher had to say my name to get me to leave a class, because I hadn’t noticed the bell. The worst days, though, were the ones where everything was too bright and too loud and I couldn’t catch my breath for one fucking minute: those were like a nightmare.
    Since T.J. had never really done more than visit since he left for Basic, it was easy at first to imagine that it hadn’t happened at all — that I’d dreamed the whole scene with the uniforms and Dad, and the ribbons and neighbors and strangers at the door. But then I would go into the kitchen and see the casseroles. Or later, the box in the hall closet. A condolence letter showed up in the mail, and I was right back there, waiting to breathe.
    I didn’t go into the living room much, and never past Dad’s recliner. But the hutch in the corner seemed to glow, waiting for me. And sometimes when I’d walk through to get to the front door, something would make me look, and