Now he was gone, and with him Harp’s connection not just to one man but two.

Two and a half days later, Logan and Harp drove up the coast to Marin County, north of San Francisco. They stayed in a motel in Sausalito that overlooked the bay, then headed to Mill Valley the next morning for Len’s memorial service.

Church first, then a line of cars made their way out to the cemetery where at least three dozen people gathered around the gravesite. Sons, and daughters, and grandsons, and granddaughters, and a few old friends like Harp and Logan. Len had been a kind man, easy with his laugh and his smile. They had all hoped Len would live forever.

Because of his military service, an American flag was draped over the casket, and a four-person honor guard stood at the ready.

“You holding up okay?” Logan whispered to his father.

Harp’s response was no more than a quick nod. Logan could feel every breath his dad took-the shallow, shuttering intakes, the deep gasps, and the pauses in between.

As soon as the reverend finished speaking, the honor guard surrounded the casket, raised the flag, and with practiced precision, folded it into a neat, tight triangle. The servicewoman who ended up with the flag walked over to where Len’s five children sat and reverently handed it to Michael, who, at sixty-two, was Len’s oldest.

The reverend said a final prayer as the casket was lowered into the grave. One by one, the mourners walked by the opening in the ground, dropping in a handful of dirt as they passed.

As Harp’s turn came, Logan rose with him, putting a hand on his dad’s back to steady him.

“I’m okay,” Harp said, then walked to the grave unaided.