Thomas Vale, 1968

Chapter 1: The Names in the Rafters

The first strange thing we found in the bunkhouse was a name carved into the underside of a bed.

THOMAS VALE — 1968

Someone had cut the letters deep into the wood and filled them with black wax. Beneath the name were six short lines, like tally marks, followed by a seventh that stopped halfway down.

I noticed it while choosing a lower bunk. The frame was rusted, and the mattress above me sagged like a heavy stomach. When I ran my thumb across the carving, a dry flake of wax came away.

“Some kid got bored,” my friend Danny said.

He dropped his sleeping bag onto the bunk across from mine. Dust rose around him. It smelled of wet leaves, old socks, and something sweeter underneath—fruit left too long in a cupboard.

We had driven from Pennsylvania that morning with Troop 303 to watch the annual Army–Navy football game. Most of us had never been to West Point. During the drive, we argued about which team would win and traded candy across the seats while the adults shouted at us to settle down.

My father drove one of the cars. He had volunteered because he thought the trip might bring us closer.

We had not been getting along that year.

He worked long hours repairing heating systems and came home smelling of metal and cigarette smoke. I was fourteen and had recently decided that almost everything he said was either embarrassing or wrong. He wanted me to stay in Scouts. I wanted to quit and spend Saturdays drawing comic books at my friend’s house.