Dark sweater.
Khaki pants.
Wrists still faintly red.
The accessible van stopped.
Leah’s door opened.
She emerged using forearm crutches.
Her right prosthetic leg was new enough that every step still required conscious thought.
Isaiah resisted the urge to move forward.
She hated being rushed.
Leah took one step.
Then another.
Reached the driveway.
Looked at her father.
Immediately noticed his wrists.
“What did you do?”
Isaiah smiled.
“Welcome home.”
“Dad.”
He opened his arms.
She hugged him.
Hard.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Leah stepped back.
Held his left wrist.
“What happened?”
“Minor misunderstanding.”
She stared.
Colonel Anderson stood behind them and made the fatal mistake of smiling.
Leah turned.
“Colonel.”
Anderson immediately became serious.
“Captain.”
“What happened?”
Isaiah said, “Andrew.”
Anderson looked toward the general.
Then Leah.
He chose survival.
“Your father was detained by local police this morning.”
Leah stared.
Then slowly looked toward Isaiah.
“Detained.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Isaiah sighed.
“They believed I might be connected to neighborhood burglaries.”
Leah looked at the Navy sweatshirt folded over a patio chair.
Then at her father.
Then at Anderson.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Running?”
“Yes.”
“In Pine Valley?”
“Yes.”
“Where everybody can afford private security systems that can identify raccoons by name?”
Isaiah smiled despite himself.
“Yes.”
Leah began laughing.
Not gently.
She nearly lost balance.
Isaiah reached.
She slapped his hand away.
“I’m fine.”
Then she laughed harder.
“This isn’t funny.”
Isaiah said.
“It is a little funny.”
“Leah.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Did you tell them?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“They figured it out.”
Her laughter disappeared.
“How?”
Isaiah told her.
Not everything.
Enough.
By the time he reached the cruiser transport, Leah’s face had gone still.
Military still.
The expression Isaiah had seen when she received bad operational news.
“They put you in a cage?”
“Yes.”
“After you gave them the address?”
“Yes.”
“After the neighbor confirmed?”
“Yes.”
Leah looked toward Anderson.
“Who’s handling this?”
Isaiah answered.
“Local department.”
“Dad.”
“Local department first.”
“You’re protecting them.”
“No.”
He looked directly at his daughter.
“I’m protecting the process.”
Leah’s jaw tightened.
“They didn’t protect yours.”
Isaiah nodded.
“That’s true.”
“Then why—”
“Because standards matter most when you have reason to abandon them.”
Leah looked away.
He knew she hated the answer because she had heard versions of it her entire life.
She entered the house.
Stopped.