“A little makeup would be nice today, don’t you think? You’re pale and you’ve lost so much weight…”

Jolene nodded but didn’t really care.

“Sit up straight and close your eyes.”

Jolene closed her eyes when asked, opened them when prompted, and pursed her lips. She couldn’t have cared less how she looked, but neither did she have the strength to protest.

“There. All done. Let’s get you dressed. Here.” Mila knelt in front of her, holding the waistband of the skirt open.

Jolene lifted her left foot and guided it through the opening, gritting her teeth when her mother-in-law slipped the skirt over her stump. Then she stood dutifully and sat again, zipping her skirt before she opened her arms for the blouse, fixing the smart dark neck tab at her collar.

Mila talked the whole time, about gardening and recipes she’d tried and the weather. Anything except the thing they were getting ready for. “Okay. All done. How did I do?”

Jolene lifted the skirt and put her prosthetic limb on. Grabbing the handrail by the toilet, she got to her feet. Turning with care, she faced the mirror on the back of the door.

In her crisp white shirt, dark neck tab, and jacket decorated with honors and trimmed in gold, she was a soldier again.

We’re graduating, flygirl, stand up straight …

Mila took Jolene in her arms, holding her tightly.

Jolene drew back. She couldn’t be touched right now; she was like fine antique china. The smallest pressure in the wrong place and she’d crack. She limped out into the family room, where Betsy and Lulu and Michael were waiting, all of them dressed in black.

When she looked at them, the membrane between what had happened and what could have seemed as fragile as a spider’s web. She was lucky to be here. It could easily have been her funeral that had made them wear black. They were thinking the same thing; she could see it in their eyes.

She managed a smile, wan though it must be, because it was expected of her.

Her family came forward, bookended her. She knew that Michael had already loaded her crutches and wheelchair into the SUV. He also knew how much she wanted to walk on her own today.

Perhaps he thought she wanted to look whole, unharmed, soldierlike. But the truth was that it hurt her to walk still, and she wanted that pain today, welcomed it. It was proof in some sick way that she’d given her best that night, that she had barely survived.

She walked—limped, really; she’d gotten new blisters on her trip to the courthouse—out to the garage.

She climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat of her SUV and forced her prosthesis to bend at the knee. The ugly ankle boot on the clunky foot hit the car’s rubber floor mat and stuck there.

She knew she should say something to her family now. They needed her to put them at ease and let them know she was okay.

But she wasn’t okay and they knew it. They were afraid of her now, afraid she’d blow up or start crying or yelling or maybe even that she’d hit someone.

She didn’t even care. The numbness was back, and this time, she was grateful for it.

Michael started the engine and opened the garage door. It clattered up behind them.

Outside, rain fell in broken threads, strands so slim and pale you only knew it was raining because you could hear it pattering the roof. Michael didn’t even bother to turn on the wipers.

The radio came on. “Purple Rain” blared through the speakers.

Jolene glanced to her left, and for a split second Tami was there, moving side to side, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, singing pur-ple rain … puur-urr-ple rain … at the top of her lungs.

Michael leaned forward and clicked off the radio. It wasn’t until he looked at her, laid his hand on her thigh, and squeezed gently that she realized she was crying.

She looked at him, thought, How am I going to get through this?

Michael squeezed her leg again.

She turned away from him, looked out the window. They were still on the bay road, and the water was calm today, as shiny and silver as a new nickel. By the time they turned onto Front Street, the sky had cleared. A pale sun pushed its way through the layer of cottony gray clouds, limning them with lemony light. In an instant, colors burst to life: the green trees on either side of the road seemed to swallow the sun and glow from within.

In town, there was bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“They all have their lights on,” Michael said.

“But it’s not night,” Lulu said from the backseat.

“It’s for Tami,” Mila said quietly.

Jolene climbed out of the darkness of her own grief and looked around. The hearse was about three cars in front of them, crawling forward. There had to be a hundred cars behind them.

They were going through town now. On either side of the street, people stood in front of the shops, gathered in clusters, waving at the passing hearse.

There were flags everywhere—on posts and poles and streetlamps. Yellow ribbons fluttered in the breeze—from doorknobs and flower boxes and car antennae. A sign in the window of Liberty Bay Books read: GOODBYE TAMI FLYNN. SAFE JOURNEY HOME.

By the time they made it to the end of town—only a few blocks later—there were hundreds of people waving at the hearse as it passed.

Then the honking started. It sounded like a symphony as the snake of cars turned up toward the cemetery. Once there, on the crest of the hill above Liberty Bay, you could see forever—the Sound, the town, and the jagged, snow-covered Olympic Mountains.

After they parked, Jolene sat there long enough that her family started to worry. They threw questions at her like tiny darts until she said, “I’m fine,” and sighed and got out of the car.

The family merged into the crowd of mourners, many of whom were in uniform.

Behind them, Jolene heard the throaty roar of Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

She shouldn’t have turned, but she did. The cars were still streaming in, lights on. There, in the middle of traffic, were about thirty motorcycles, moving in formation; huge flags flapped out behind the riders—Guard, army, American. They created a blur of flying colors. She could see from here that the riders were of all ages and most were in uniforms.

Patriot riders.

Jolene stumbled; Michael caught her, steadied her. Giving him a tight smile, she squared her shoulders and kept walking.

As they rounded the bend, she saw their destination. Perched out on a lip of land that overlooked the Sound was a peaked green tent roof supported by four glinting silver poles. Beneath it was a casket draped in an American flag.

Already there were hundreds of mourners standing around. Behind them stood a row of flags—the Guard, the United States, the army. Last was the Raptor flag.

She wanted to lean into Michael and feel him take her in his arms, but she stood tall, lifted her chin just the slightest amount. This might be the last moment she would ever be Chief Warrant Officer Zarkades, and she’d be damned if she’d disgrace the uniform.

At the side of the casket, she saw Carl and Seth, both dressed in black, looking blank and confused. Beside them was Tami’s weeping mother.

She went up to Seth, put her arms around him. She saw the tears glaze his eyes, and it took every ounce of willpower she had not to cry. She concentrated on each breath, remaining composed by sheer force of will.

And then it was beginning. Michael led her to one of the folding chairs reserved for the family. It hurt to look at Seth and Carl as they took their seats beside her, but she did it, wanting desperately to say I’m sorry to each of them. Amazingly, they looked at her with sadness, but not blame. That only made her feel worse.

Somewhere a bagpipe started to play.

This time Jolene closed her eyes. She heard the high, mournful notes of the instrument, heard the muffled sound of boots marching along behind, and knew the soldiers were making their way down the hill, toward the casket.

“We are here to say good-bye to a special woman. Chief Warrant Officer Tamara Margaret Flynn…”

Jolene dared to open her eyes.

The minister from Tami’s church stood by the casket. He had no microphone—no one had expected such a crowd—but the people quieted instantly, until all you could hear was the wind fluttering the flags out front. “But she wasn’t Tamara to us, was she? She was just Tami, the girl who used to climb trees with the boys and run wild along the beach. I remember when her mother despaired that she would ever slow down enough to find a career.” He looked up the hill.

Jolene knew what he was seeing—hundreds of people, and more than half of them in uniform. “She did find that career, though, and I have to say, I wasn’t surprised that she found her passion in the sky. She loved flying. She once told me that it was as close to God as she could imagine being.”

He looked down at his hands, then up at the crowd again. “We lost her, and that is a wound that won’t heal. We lost her in a faraway land, doing something that most of us can’t begin to understand. We ask how we could have lost her in such a way. But then we know: that was Tami. If someone needed help, she was the first to show up. Of course she put herself in harm’s way. That’s who our Tami was.”

Jolene heard Seth make a sound beside her. She reached for his hand, took it. He held on tightly.

“We thank Tami for her service today, as friends and as Americans. She gave the full measure to protect, and she is a hero. But we knew that, didn’t we? We knew she was a hero long before today. To Seth and Carl, whom she loved with a fierceness that was matched only by her courage, I say, remember her, all of her. And when you look at the sky, think of her up there, in her beloved blue, with our Lord beside her. She would not want you to mourn.” He looked up at the sky and said quietly, “Good-bye, Tami. Peace be with you.”

He stepped aside and one of the uniformed soldiers marched up to the casket. The soldier removed the flag from the casket, and, along with another soldier, carefully folded it into a near triangle. Then he offered it to Captain Ben Lomand, who stood nearby. The soldier saluted and handed Ben the flag. Ben turned crisply on his heel, pivoted, and brought the flag to Carl.

Jolene saw that Carl’s hands were shaking as he reached out.

On the ground, two rows of soldiers pointed their guns skyward and shots rang out. A twenty-one-gun salute. Carl stood, walked toward the casket. He stood there a long time, his head bowed; then he placed a red rose on the gleaming mahogany top. Seth followed. The rose he placed on the casket slipped off, and he bent to retrieve it, placing it next to his father’s. One by one Tami’s relatives came up to say their last good-bye and put a rose on the casket.

When it was Jolene’s turn, she stood slowly. She felt awkward, uncertain that her legs would hold her up.

“You can do it,” Michael said.

She moved cautiously forward. At the flower-strewn coffin, she stopped, and put her hands out, touching the smooth wood. The rose she held bit her with its thorn. Good-bye, flygirl. I’ll miss you …

She put her rose with the others and then joined the five soldiers who’d gathered at the casket. The bagpipes started to play again, and Jolene watched as the soldiers—her friends from the Guard—picked up the casket. The soldiers carried it down the grass toward its final resting place. Jolene limped beside them, an honorary pallbearer.