I looked out over the forty miles of clean, sweet lake water where my grandfather's memory, my uniform's true honor, and my children's future had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Grandpa Arthur,” Damon whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“Evan is laughing.”
“Eleanor is whole.”
“Garrett is home.”
“The uniform held true.”
“The ledger is closed.”
“And around here...”
We stood up from the chairs, holding Evan, Eleanor, Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David's hands toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the valley chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“...nobody ever, ever... audits an auditor again.”
Barnaby let out a soft, contented sigh on the porch rug, his tail thumping once against the cedar boards: thump.
Garrett laughed into the warm sunlight.
