Chapter 11

My daughter was born on a Tuesday in March, in Walter Reed's private maternity wing, with Colonel Nakamura holding one hand and Torres holding the other. She came into the world screaming — furious, red-faced, and magnificent. Seven pounds, two ounces. Dark hair. Her father's steel-blue eyes. I named her Vera. Latin for truth. "She's perfect," Nakamura said, her iron composure cracking for the first and only time. "She's everything," I whispered. The first weeks shrank to the size of...