The twenty-one-gun salute had finished echoing across the Virginia hills when Mr. Halloway cleared his throat and read my name.

I had been watching the flag ceremony from the window of the estate’s library, the Marines moving through their precise ritual with the contained grief of professionals who perform grief as a form of honor, and I had been thinking about the last conversation I had with my grandfather, which had taken place six months earlier in the sunroom of this same house, both of us drinking coffee that had gone cold while he told me, for what I understood only in retrospect to be the final time, that the people who do the quiet work are never the ones history remembers but are always the ones history requires.

He had looked at me while he said it in a way he did not look at anyone else in my family, with the specific quality of a person who has identified something in you that you have not yet fully identified in yourself and is waiting patiently for you to arrive at the recognition.