"Did he salute you?" she whispered.
"He saluted the stars," Elijah said. "There's a difference, and it's important."
He took her first to his office — a corner room with a big desk, a flag in the corner, and walls covered in photographs. Zuri moved along them slowly, reading the story of her father's career in images: a young Elijah in flight school, grinning; Elijah in a desert, squinting into the sun; Elijah shaking hands with people whose faces Zuri recognized from television.
"Is that the president?" she breathed.
"That was two presidents ago," Elijah said. "He told me a joke I've forgotten, and I laughed like it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, because that's what you do."
Zuri giggled. Then she stopped at a photograph of a group of airmen, young faces, dusty uniforms, arms around each other's shoulders. "Who are they?"
Elijah was quiet for a moment. "My squadron. From my second deployment." He touched the glass gently. "Good people. The best I've ever known."
"Where are they now?"
"Scattered. Some still serving. Some retired." He paused. "Two didn't come home."
Zuri looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Dad."
"Me too, sunshine. Every day." He put his arm around her shoulders. "That's part of what the stars mean. Not just the honor. The responsibility. Every decision I make, I carry them with me."
Next, he took her to the flight line, where a massive cargo plane sat gleaming in the sun. The crew chief, a woman named Sergeant Alvarez — no relation to the substitute, she assured Zuri with a wink — gave them a tour, letting Zuri climb into the cockpit and touch the controls.
"This is where the magic happens," Sergeant Alvarez said. "Well, the magic and about four thousand checklists."
Zuri sat in the pilot's seat, her feet not quite reaching the pedals, and gripped the yoke with both hands. "Dad, did you fly these?"
"Earlier in my career. Before I got promoted to pushing paper." He leaned against the cockpit door, watching her. "You know, when I was your age, I sat in a cockpit for the first time at an air show. I told my father I was going to fly someday. He said —" Elijah smiled. "He said, 'Son, you can do anything, but you'll have to work twice as hard as everybody else, and you'll have to be twice as good.'"
"Was he right?"
"He was right." Elijah's voice was matter-of-fact, not bitter. "That's just how it was. How it still is, sometimes." He looked at his daughter — at her bright eyes, her careful hands on the controls. "I don't want that for you, Zuri. I want you to have to work exactly as hard as everyone else. No more, no less."
"Is that why you didn't want people to know?" Zuri asked quietly. "About the stars? So I'd just be... regular?"
Elijah climbed into the cockpit and sat in the co-pilot's seat, turning to face her. "Partly. I wanted you to be judged for who you are, not who I am. But I think I got it wrong, sunshine." He took her hands. "Because who I am is part of who you are. You're my daughter. That's not a secret to be kept. It's a truth to be proud of — just like you're proud of me, I'm proud to be your dad. And if the world has a problem with that, that's the world's problem, not ours."
Zuri threw her arms around his neck, there in the cockpit of the big plane, and Elijah held her tight, breathing in the smell of her hair — strawberry shampoo, the same as always.
On the way home, Zuri was quiet, thinking. Finally, she said, "Dad? Mrs. Hayes sent me a letter."
Elijah glanced at her. "I know. Your mom told me. Have you read it?"
"Not yet. It's on my dresser." She picked at her seatbelt. "Do I have to forgive her?"
"No," Elijah said. "Forgiveness isn't homework, sunshine. Nobody can assign it to you." He was quiet for a moment. "But I'll tell you what my grandmother told me: holding onto anger is like holding onto a hot coal. You're the one who gets burned. Forgiveness isn't about the other person. It's about putting the coal down."
Zuri nodded slowly. "I think I want to read the letter first. Before I decide anything."
"That's the smartest thing I've heard all day," Elijah said. "And I sat through a two-hour briefing on logistics."
She laughed — the real laugh, the one that had been scarce for weeks. And Elijah drove home through the October afternoon with his daughter beside him, thinking that the base, the planes, the stars — all of it was just scenery. This was the real thing. This girl, this laugh, this moment.
Everything else was just the uniform he wore to protect it.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte's Letter
Zuri read the letter on a Sunday afternoon, sitting on her bed with her stuffed elephant in her lap.
She'd carried it around for a week — in her backpack, in her desk drawer, under her pillow. She'd almost opened it a dozen times. But something had held her back, a feeling she couldn't name until her mother said it for her: "You don't have to read it until you're ready. It's your letter. It'll wait."
Today, she was ready.
The envelope was plain white, her name written in careful cursive. Inside, three pages, the handwriting neat but shaky in places, as if the writer's hand had trembled.
"Dear Zuri," it began.
"There are no words big enough for what I did to you. But I'm going to try to find them anyway, because you deserve at least that much.