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“Daddy!” Kate squealed as she threw herself at him. Cooper hoisted her up, her little-girl bottom resting on his forearm, her face jammed into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck and squeezing. She smelled like shampoo and cereal bars, and immediately began a nonstop monologue, how she’d missed him, even though he’d been here yesterday, how all the kids wanted to be her friends now that he was famous and how she was staying friends with the ones who had been her friends before and . . .

“Hey, Dad,” Todd said. He was trying a grown-up voice that didn’t match his goofy grin. He held out a hand to shake, and Cooper grabbed it, yanked his son into the embrace.

This is what you fought for. Not ideals, not compromise, not some vague notion of tomorrow. These two people right here.

“Hey, you,” Natalie said. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was warm.

Three people.

“Hey, you,” he said, and gestured her to join them in a family hug. They all held on for a long time. Finally, he said, “This is probably a long shot.”

“What?”

“No, I feel silly.”

“Daddy, what?”

“Well, I was just wondering, is there any chance, and it’s okay to say no, but is there any chance that you guys would be interested in burgers and milkshakes?”

The kids ran about gathering their stuff, Todd’s coat and hat and d-pad, Kate’s worn lovey and new book and wasn’t her scarf cool? Cooper let them go, lapping up the warmth of it, answering questions, rifling their hair. Natalie seemed far away, and he glanced sideways at her, almost asked if she was okay, decided against it. Reached out for her hand instead and squeezed it.

The morning after the attack, the two of them had put on a brave face for the kids, saying that things hadn’t been that bad, never mind the burned-out buildings, the uniformed soldiers arriving in heavy trucks, the bodies still being collected, the smell of smoke and blood. It wasn’t until after the kids were in bed that they’d gotten a chance to talk.

Natalie had told him about the siege, calmly at first, then her eyes drifting away, her fingers tracing coffee rings on the table, her voice growing hollow as she described the day and the night. The things she had seen. The things she had done. That she wasn’t sure how many people she had killed but knew it was quite a few. That she had aimed her rifle and pressed the trigger and then done it again and again and again and again and again. That she had thrown flaming gasoline on living men, had heard their screams, smelled their hair scorching away, and then shot their comrades by the light of their burning flesh.

When she had cried, he had held her and whispered that it was okay, though they both knew that was a lie. He was a soldier, always had been, and it wasn’t the killing that wounded him so deeply, it was the idea of Natalie doing it.

“You didn’t have a choice,” he’d said, and she had nodded into his chest.

“I know.”

She wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown, wasn’t going to question the reasons for her actions. She was fully aware of them. But he could see the change in her, see that her world had become a darker place, and he knew that she would probably carry that forever. Not every moment, not even most. But the weight would never really vanish.

You owe her everything. Every pure thing in your life has flowed from Natalie.

And you have given her nothing but fear and pain. You owe her more.

The things we do for our children, he thought. She had said that to him almost a year ago. He squeezed her hand again, and she blinked and smiled at him.

The diner was a madhouse, full to bursting with construction crews and research scientists and United States marines. But when the hostess saw him, she lit up like a forest fire, said, “Right this way, Mr. Cooper. We’ll make space.” Her voice was louder than he would have liked, and half the restaurant turned to look, pointing and shooting him nods and thumbs-up.

“Ohmygawwwd,” Natalie said. “Is that really you, Mr. Cooper? Can I have your autograph? Please, please, oh pretty please?”

He gave her the finger.

The food was greasy goodness, fries cooked crisp, burgers that tasted the way he remembered from when he was a kid, washed down by rich chocolate milkshakes. The four of them laughed and joked, falling easily into the long-held rhythms of a happy family. It was good; it was more than good.