Doug was standing in a jewelry store on the Strip, where he had taken the watch to be appraised before selling it. “This man says it’s fake!” he shouted. “Brass with gold plating. Worth maybe thirty-five dollars!” In the background, the appraiser calmly explained that the case had been made recently and the engraving on the back was barely a month old.

“What engraving?” I asked, though I already knew. Doug went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. “It doesn’t say thirty years of service,” he said. “It says something else.” He read it to me slowly, word by word, like each one hurt. If you’re reading this, son, you took it off a dead man’s wrist. Time to look at yourself. Love, Dad.