His sister nodded slowly.
He looked toward his hands.
"I don't want people thinking a person has to know somebody in Washington to deserve fair treatment."
Nia studied him.
Then smiled sadly.
"That's why you're talking about it."
Isaiah looked toward her.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then nodded.
"Maybe."
That evening, Grace called again.
She'd seen parts of the news coverage online.
Her voice sounded worried.
"Dad, everybody's sharing the video."
Isaiah closed his eyes.
He'd hoped she wouldn't have to see the slap.
"Did you watch it?"
There was a pause.
"Yes."
His chest tightened.
"Sweetheart—"
She interrupted.
"He hit you so hard."
For a moment, Isaiah couldn't speak.
Grace began crying.
"I hate that."
He took a slow breath.
"I know."
She continued.
"You didn't even move toward him."
Isaiah looked toward the window.
The sun was setting beyond Lillian's yard.
He remembered Cleary's hand moving toward his face.
The sharp impact.
And the temptation to respond.
Then he thought of his father.
"Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is stay in control long enough for the truth to survive," he said.
Grace was silent.
Then asked whether he was afraid.
Isaiah considered the question.
He could have told her no.
Could have pretended that twenty-two years in uniform made him immune to fear.
But he didn't want to teach his daughter that courage required dishonesty.
"Yes," he answered.
Her voice softened.
"Really?"
"Really."
He paused.
"I was afraid he'd keep escalating. I was afraid nobody would believe me. And I was afraid something would happen before I got home to you and Grandma."
Grace sniffed.
Then asked how he stayed calm.
Isaiah closed his eyes.
He remembered Samuel in the repair shop.
Then answered.
"Because being afraid doesn't mean you have to stop thinking."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Grace said quietly.
"I'm proud of you."
Isaiah felt tears gathering.
"I'm proud of you too."
The first resident to contact Lena Price after the article appeared was a sixty-one-year-old veteran named Marcus Dunn.
Marcus lived outside Coopersville in a modest house with a small workshop behind it. He had served in the Army for sixteen years before leaving because of an injury that made continued service difficult.
Afterward, he worked as a warehouse supervisor.
He drove an aging pickup, kept a vegetable garden, and spent weekends repairing tools for neighbors.
Two years earlier, Cleary stopped him on a county road after claiming his license plate was improperly displayed.
Marcus provided the registration.
The sheriff examined his documents.