The soldier held the salute long enough for everyone in the driveway to understand that it wasn’t for show.

“Major,” he said, with his eyes fixed on me. “The convoy is secure. We are ready to move on your order.”

Behind him, three dark vehicles sat at the curb with their engines running. Frost was still on the lawn. Somewhere down the street, a dog was barking at the whole thing.

Julian’s Audi keys stopped spinning around his finger.

My father stepped out onto the porch with the newspaper still pressed against his chest. My mother and my sister, Harper, stood behind him in the open doorway, my mother in her pink robe, Harper in a cream sweater with her coffee mug in both hands.

None of them said a word.

I returned the salute. Then I lowered my hand and rested it on the curve of my stomach, because the baby had started kicking the second the vehicles pulled up.

“At ease,” I said. “I need one secured case from the upstairs bedroom and the cardboard box beside the garage door. Nothing else.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turned and signaled to another member of the team. A younger soldier with a shaved head walked toward the house.

Then he stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He didn’t take another step.

“Permission to enter, ma’am?” he asked.