Inside the box lay a heavy bronze medal on a red ribbon, the Medal of Service, which had never been given to anyone who did not fight fires. The chief explained that the department had voted for it unanimously two months earlier. The empty chair beside the podium was Harold’s, and the white place card on it read “Guest of Honor.” The new coordinator had been hired only a week ago, and she had checked the firefighter roster alone, never the special list the chief sent to the office. She stood in the doorway with tears running down her face.

The chief turned to the crowd and told them a story. Twenty-nine years ago, on a stormy night, he rode in Engine Nine as a rookie. That afternoon, Harold had refused to approve the truck because he found a hairline crack in a brake line that no inspection had caught. His supervisor told him to let it go. Harold stayed past midnight, replaced the line by hand, and wrote it in his notebook. Hours later, the engine raced down a mountain road with six firefighters aboard, and the brakes held.