He studied it for several seconds.
Then placed it beside the two broken pieces of the original card, which had eventually been returned after the necessary evidentiary procedures were complete.
The contrast was striking.
One card was whole.
The other remained separated into jagged fragments.
Lillian approached.
For a moment, she looked toward the pieces.
Then sat beside her son.
"You keeping those?"
Isaiah considered the question.
"Yeah."
She nodded.
"Why?"
He looked toward the broken photograph.
For several seconds, he was quiet.
Then answered.
"Because I don't want to forget what happened when somebody decided he didn't need to check the truth."
His mother studied him.
Then placed one hand over his.
"Just don't let that memory become the only thing you carry."
Isaiah looked toward her.
He smiled faintly.
"I won't."
Lillian nodded.
Then stood to finish preparing dinner.
The ordinary sounds of the kitchen returned.
A pot simmering.
A cupboard opening.
And the familiar humming of his mother's favorite music.
Isaiah placed the new identification in his wallet.
Then carefully put the broken pieces into a small keepsake box containing his retirement photographs and the flag from his ceremony.
The pieces were still damaged.
They would never become a whole card again.
But they no longer represented something he was trying to repair.
They represented something he'd survived.
Several months later, Isaiah drove Grace from Illinois to Alabama.
She wanted to spend part of her school break with her grandmother and aunt, and he welcomed the opportunity to make the trip together.
They traveled in the repaired silver Ford F-150.
The truck had been returned after the investigations no longer required it to remain in custody, and the necessary damage and related claims had been addressed through the applicable processes.
Isaiah had checked every part of the vehicle before leaving.
The tires were in good condition.
The engine ran smoothly.
And the familiar gray interior looked exactly as it had before the incident, except for the memories attached to it.
Grace sat in the passenger seat listening to music and watching the fields pass.
They stopped for food, talked about college applications, and argued playfully about which songs belonged on the road-trip playlist.
For most of the journey, Isaiah felt completely at ease.
Then they approached the Holloway County line.
The sign appeared beside the road.
Grace noticed his expression.
"Dad?"
He looked toward her.
"Yeah?"
"Is this where it happened?"
Isaiah took a slow breath.
"Not far from here."
She looked toward the road ahead.
For several seconds, neither spoke.