Coda

CODA

AMERICA HAS SUFFERED tremendous losses and faced countless crises throughout its history. What was remarkable about what happened in Waketa was how a nation—perhaps more divided than it had ever been in its history—set aside those differences and worked together to save one another, a small community, and ultimately the world.

It is written in the Talmud, “Whoever saves a single life is considered by scripture to have saved the whole world.”

That is what happened in Waketa.

The double doors opened. Everyone stood. President Dawson took his position behind the podium. The youngest president in American history, he’d navigated the largest homeland crisis the nation had ever seen while keeping the public informed and safe the entire time. He’d earned the respect of millions—even those who hadn’t voted for him. In his first few months in office, Dawson had already secured a legacy far beyond his age.

The president looked at the teleprompter where the carefully crafted message his speechwriters had prepared waited for him to begin.

America has suffered tremendous losses and faced countless crises throughout…

Dawson blinked at the monitor, at the message he’d approved. It was a good speech. Presidential. But it wasn’t what he should say. Dawson knew this moment required his own words. Clearing his throat, the president ignored the written speech.

“It seems impossible that it’s been over a year since that day. A day that brought out the best of humanity. And make no mistake, we are only here because the best of us stepped forward. Today, we honor them.”

At that, the cameras began to click wildly as Marines in their dress blues joined the president at the front of the room. While everyone was getting into position, Dawson looked over at the large easels holding the large pictures: Steve Tostig in his bunker gear, sweaty and covered in ash, the smile of a man who knew he was doing exactly what he had been put on this earth to do. Joss Vance, in a soft black turtleneck, leaning forward on crossed arms, hint of a smirk, eyebrow raised in a perpetual state of I’d like to see you try.

“I’m told Dr. Jocelyn Vance found herself at gunpoint not once but twice that day,” he said. “I understand she got into it with just about everyone in the control room, refusing to give an inch on what needed to be said and done. And I can personally verify that she argued with, poked fun at, and hung up on the president of the United States.”

A murmur of soft laughter rippled through the crowd.

“In a crisis, success or failure can come down to the person making the calls. You pray you have the right person in that position. Someone unafraid to ruffle feathers and be unpopular if that’s what it takes. Someone who doesn’t care about the status quo or how it’s always been done. Someone unfazed by power and prestige. Someone who can not only see the tough call but is courageous enough to make it.”

Dawson paused, giving himself a moment to regain his composure. He knew no one would think twice about it. It was natural for him to be emotional right now. But only he and Tony knew the truth, and he and Tony had never discussed it and never would. He glanced over at her picture, that damn, beautiful arched eyebrow. She’d changed the world, and in a handful of hours over just a few phone calls, she had cut an indelible path through his.

“In our time of national crisis, we did have the right person making the calls. We are only here now because of it. We owe Joss a debt that cannot and will not ever be repaid. But we can honor her sacrifice. Therefore, it is my honor to award the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Dr. Jocelyn Vance for her expertise, bravery, and selflessness.”

The room erupted into applause as one of the Marines handed President Dawson an open box displaying a white star with a blue center surrounded by gold eagles hanging from a bright blue ribbon. “Accepting on behalf of Dr. Vance is former Clover Hill plant manager Ethan Rosen.”

Ethan rose from his seat in the audience and joined the president on the raised platform to receive the medal with a handshake held just long enough for the photographers to get their shot.

As the applause died down, Dawson returned to the podium. “We also owe a debt of gratitude to Ethan Rosen for his actions that day. In the time since the accident, Mr. Rosen has created the Joss Vance Foundation for a Nuclear Future, a research-based nonprofit whose sole purpose is to continue Dr. Vance’s mission to create safe, long-term, viable solutions for nuclear waste. The foundation is meticulously preserving and archiving her research, and it spearheaded the landmark bipartisan regulatory legislation Congress passed earlier this year. It also set up a grant for women in the field of nuclear engineering research who look to continue the crucial work Joss started. This will ensure a safe future for generations to come, and this foundation will enshrine her name, her legacy, and what she did for and meant to this country.”

The crowd applauded again. Ethan looked down at the medal in his hand, which was the place he wished everyone else would focus too. He glanced up into the audience to see Kristin smiling proudly, sitting next to the kids, who did the same. He had to believe Joss would be happy to see his family there like that and that she too would be proud and pleased with his work now. He would finish what they had started as undergrads. It was time for him to do his part.

While the applause died down, Dawson considered where to go next. He wished he had notes to rely on and wondered if maybe he should just jump back to the prepared speech. The president looked to the teleprompter—but found himself glancing instead at the front row of the audience.

Matt stared at the floor. The suit he wore looked brand-new and it fit him perfectly. His hair was combed neatly, and his shoes were shined. This was a child who was cared for. Protected. Loved. Not only by the aunt and uncle who had taken him in but by an entire town, an extended community that had declared that Matt was one of them and that he would never have to go it alone. But as the president looked at the boy, he knew that there were missing pieces in him that no person, no medal, no words, would ever fill. Dawson cleared his throat.

“That day asked a lot of us,” he said. “But for a few of us, it asked everything .”

Hearing the passion in the president’s voice, Matt looked up to find Dawson talking directly to him.

“It wasn’t fair. What your dad had to do. It wasn’t fair. We all get to stay here. Live long, happy lives. And he’s gone. A good, decent man is gone. And that’s wrong. And it hurts. And it’s not fair.”

Something flickered across the boy’s face. Something like recognition. Dawson wondered if anyone had said anything like this to him before or if, being well intended, they’d only emphasized what a hero Steve was and how much his sacrifice meant. Had Matt heard only the hopeful, positive, future-facing sentiments meant to create meaning and purpose out of his pain? Had no one looked this boy dead in the eye and acknowledged the truth?

Dawson looked Matt dead in the eye. “This sucks.”

A look of relief broke onto the boy’s face—then he laughed.

“It really does,” Matt said, his eyes welling with tears.

More laughter mixed with tears as Dawson motioned for Matt to join him on the platform. The two hugged to applause before a Marine handed a medal to the president and he presented it to Matt. Wiping his eyes, Dawson returned to the mic.

“I never knew my father. Growing up, I used to dream of the kind of father I wished I had.”

He turned to Matt.

“It was always a man like your dad. Stable. Confident. A decent, kind person who looked out for others and protected not only his own but those he didn’t know. You were lucky to have him. And we are grateful you shared him with us. His character will be emulated by all the inspired little boys and girls who will grow up hearing stories about who he was and what he did. He will live on in them. He will live on in you. And when you look at this medal, I hope you remember how proud we are of him and how grateful we are for what he did.”

Matt smiled at the applause, glancing up at Ethan, who applauded hardest of all.

After a few moments, Dawson cleared his throat. “The scope and scale of what was dealt with that day at Clover Hill and in Waketa is, even now, difficult to comprehend. The fate of a nation hung in the balance. The lives of generations to come were in the hands of a few. The sacrifices we honor today and all the actions taken that day were for the benefit of countless scores of people we don’t know and will never meet. That day last April, it was declared in every way that it isn’t about the individual. It’s about the whole. The collective. The greater good.”

President Dawson thought for a moment. He cocked his head.

“But it’s a paradox. Because what is the whole without the individual? If we do not care for the life of one person, how do the lives of millions have meaning? The firefighters of Engine Forty-Two understood that. And in a moment when their logic, their superiors, their fears, were all pressuring them—they said no . They stood firm in their convictions and said the life of one little boy does matter. That is a different kind of bravery. One of quiet conviction that says, This is who we are, this is what we stand for, and that matters .”

He paused, standing up straighter.

“For this final medal, it is my honor to have someone else do the honors.”

Connor came up to the stage, and the president positioned a chair next to the podium. He helped the boy up, made sure he was stable and facing the front, and took the medal from the waiting Marine. He placed the ribbon in Connor’s little fingers and held the back of the chair steady as the boy lifted the medal up and over Dani’s head.

After helping Connor with the clasp, Dawson said, “It is my honor to present the Medal of Freedom to Dani Allen of Waketa Township’s Engine Forty-Two. Dani is the Golden Rule personified. If any one of us had been in that van, we would have prayed for someone to fight as hard for us as Dani and her crew fought for Connor. That was bravery; that was sacrifice.”

“Damn right it was!”

Everyone laughed at R.J.’s outburst. Frankie let out a loud whistle as the rest of the firefighters led the cheering. Levon pumped his fist, proud tears filling his eyes, before he placed his hand on Carla’s growing belly and gave her a kiss.

She was due in June. It was a girl. They would name her Jocelyn.

Dani’s eyes welled with tears as she looked out at Marion and Brianna, both of whom beamed with pride. Bri’s seat was next to Connor’s. Marion sat beside Connor’s grandparents. Their little family had grown, albeit through tragedy, but they’d decided together that love would be the takeaway.

Dani turned to hug Connor. Ethan put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. And the president shook his head at that damn arched eyebrow.

Reverend Michaels’s footsteps echoed through the empty chapel as he walked up the aisle toward the altar blowing on his cup of tea when a flash of color to his right made him turn.

Stepping closer, he peered out the window down to the cemetery and saw the newly placed flowers resting against Claire Tostig’s headstone. He smiled, hearing the bike whiz by through the church’s open front door.

The crickets chirped in the early-summer sunset and he knew the bullfrogs would join them soon. The air was warm, the crops were growing. The reverend closed his eyes and took this all in, from the heat of the mug in his hand to the smell of the fresh-cut grass in his nose.

Bowing his head, Reverend Michaels said a prayer.

And then, he continued on.

The bike’s wheels spun over the cracked asphalt of Main Street. The bank’s secretary waved to Matt as she got in her car to go home just as the neon sign at Kline’s frozen custard clicked on. The door to the hardware store chimed as someone went in, and an Elton John song poured out the window of a truck going the other way.

Matt looked up to the town’s new water tower, smirking as he passed the spot where he knew his name was carved. Mom would have been pissed. Dad would have laughed hard—after all, his name had been up there once too.

He rode past the fields, the cornstalks growing just barely faster than he was. He rode through the woods, beside a doe and her frolicking spring fawn. He went the way his dad’s truck used to drive, the secret way, the way no one else knew, the way to their spot.

The river rambled noisily as he hopped off his bike. Grabbing his pole, Matt let his bike drop into the underbrush and made his way down to the water. He unzipped his backpack, grabbed his small tackle box, and crouched as he got out what he needed.

His fingers worked with practiced ease as he tied the knot tight. The correct knot. The knot that wouldn’t tangle. The knot his dad had taught him. Then he took his pole—no longer broken after Mr. Levon had helped him fix it—swung back, and cast it out to the water.

Matt slowly reeled the line in and cast it back out.

Then again.

They’d never talked much when he and his dad used to come here. They just sort of hung out. They were just together. So now, when he came here alone, the silence didn’t feel weird. It felt like maybe they were still just hanging out. Like they were still just together.

He’d give anything to talk to him, though. He had so many questions: Did it hurt? Where are you now? Are you with Mom? Can you guys see me? What do I do?

Matt knew enough to know questions like that didn’t come with answers, so he’d learned to stop asking. Most of the time he was okay with it. Sometimes he wasn’t. And when he wasn’t, when he got too angry or too sad or it hurt too much—he’d go see them. He’d bring Mom flowers at the cemetery, but because he knew his dad’s tombstone was over nothing since his body was too dangerous to be buried there, he’d come here to be with him.

Matt cast the line, and the lure hit the water with a rippling plop . A breeze picked up, bringing with it the smell of a campfire someone somewhere was burning. Matt closed his eyes, breathing deeply the scent of his father. He let it all fill him—the anger, the pain, the love, all of it. The scrape of his beard, the sizzle of pancakes hitting the griddle, the truck pulling into the drive, his boots on the back steps. It was all there; it was all still there.

Matt’s eyes closed tighter against the tears, the pain unbearable. “I love you, Dad,” he whispered. “I miss you so much.”

Suddenly, his eyes shot open and he gasped.

As fast as he could, Matt began reeling in the big fish tugging on his line.