44
Connie flipped the coin over and back.
She’d found a quiet place over by the park’s track-mounted, five-inch gun, a large, nasty piece of work.
A silver dollar. The payment due from an officer for their first salute from an enlisted soldier. A tradition reaching back no one knew how far—1800s, 1700s? A payment for receipt of respect due the new rank and position.
Connie twisted it in the moonlight. Fifty years old. Noreen had whispered as they’d hugged, It’s a half-century coin, so that we can look at it together when we’re a half-century older.
Connie twisted it again in the moonlight.
She knew it was stupid. Knew she was digging her own pit but couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the downward spiral.
Half a century.
Her father had been there for her only twelve short years. Her mo
