diately swallowed by the city's relentless energy. People rushed past her, a river of suits and briefcases,

nfectant. She placed the urn on the nightstand and opened the box containing her husband's medals. The Medal of Honor gleamed under the weak light o

erred to the "tragic accident" and highlighted Senator Caldwell's "compassionate response" to the "grieving mother." They painted a picture of a powerful

ould take the money and be grateful." Each word was a fresh cut, but Eleanor refused to bleed. She read them all, letting the injustice fuel the fire i

es, called her, her voice frantic with worry. "Ellie, what are yo

leanor said, her voice calm

ou are. You raised money for the VFW, you organized the support groups for the other wiv

powerful man's daughter killed my son and they are going to get away with it." The wo

d, her voice a whisper. "You can't figh

ed. "They've taken everything from

other end of the line. "Please

as a stranger. Her face was pale and gaunt, her eyes shadowed with grief, but there was a hardness in their depths

She didn't take a taxi. She walked. She walked for miles, the city's noise a dull roar in the

r husband had served with his life. The la

ists snapped pictures from a distance. Officials with security badges hurri

he hard pavement. She placed her son's urn in front of her. She too

ecurity guards approached her cautiously. "Ma'am

is life for this country," she said, her voice clear and strong, carrying over the hum of traffic. "His son, Michael Vance,

People stopped to stare. Cell phone cameras were raised. The guards were flustered, unsure how

Eleanor Vance was no longer a