Inside was a heavy bronze Medal of Service hanging from a red ribbon. Dad stared because the honor had never been awarded to someone who didn’t fight fires. The chief explained that the department had voted unanimously two months earlier. The empty chair beside the podium had always been Dad’s, marked “Guest of Honor.” The new coordinator had simply checked the firefighter roster and never received the special list. Now she stood crying in the doorway.

Then the chief explained why Harold deserved that chair. Twenty-nine years earlier, when he was a rookie aboard Engine Nine, Dad discovered a hairline crack in its brake line. A supervisor told him to approve the truck anyway. Dad refused. He stayed past midnight, replaced the damaged line himself, and recorded the repair in his notebook. Hours later, Engine Nine raced down a steep mountain road carrying six firefighters. The brakes held—and all six men returned home.