Chapter 12: Saturday at Station 9

We stood against the back wall, behind the last row of folding chairs.

Nobody turned around.

The bagpipes finished, and a chief in white gloves climbed the steps to the podium.

He spoke for ten minutes about service, and sacrifice, and the families of the department.

I did not hear much of it.

I was watching the front row.

Dalton sat at the end of it in his dress blues with his cap on his knee.

He had lost weight in two weeks, and his face was gray.

Beside him sat Corey, hunched over, his big hands hanging between his knees.

Imogen sat on Dalton's other side in a black dress, holding his hand.

Bree's fingers closed on my wrist so hard it hurt.

"I can't breathe," she whispered.

"Then don't. Not yet."

"He looks so old."

"I know."

"He looks like a stranger."

"Bree, stay with me."

The chief stepped back, and Imogen stood up.

She walked to the podium with a folded sheet of paper and set it down.

She looked lovely.

Her hair was pinned up, her eyes were wet, and her voice was soft and clear when she spoke into the microphone.

"We gather today for two children who never heard us say their names," she said.

She took a breath.

"Baby Boy Overpeck. Baby Girl Haskell."

A sound went through the hall, a long sigh from two hundred people.

Imogen's eyes lifted from the page.

They traveled over the rows, slowly, and reached the back of the hall.

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