He reached for the bottle, shakily pouring the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. His bleary eyes kept drooping. Charles Mackey knew he was finally close to passing out. That had been his goal since nine o’clock this morning. It had been his goal every day since February 3, 2007, when his son Sergeant Jonas Mackey had been fatally shot in Iraq.

Charles lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Through the tears that had begun to gather yet again, he glared at the Purple Heart that lay on a shelf across the room. Yes, it was a huge honor and a testament to his son’s last courageous acts, but no solace and obviously no replacement for his beloved only child. Charles slurped down the last of the whiskey and with a sudden anguished roar, he threw the glass across the room, nailing the display case straight-on. Glass over the ribbon smashed, then it toppled to the floor, it’s landing thud as final as his son’s life.

More tears followed as his gnarled hands grasped a picture of his son in military dress. Charles leaned back on the couch, letting his eyes close slowly. In moments, he had passed out from the combination of whiskey and emotional exhaustion. And tears still rolled down his weathered cheeks as the lit cigarette rolled from his fingers and across the floor, smoking and smoldering as it went. It rested finally against a bookshelf.

Slow moments passed as a small flame flickered weakly, almost died, the erupted gently. It caressed its was up the bookcase and danced across carpeting. A smoke detector abruptly shrilled its siren, jolting Charles into a dazed wakefulness. He shot to a sitting position, slack-jawed initially at the interruption, then unbelieving as he took in the growing roar of the spreading fire. Struggling to his feet, Charles’ whiskey-fogged mind slowly took in a mostly-blocked escape route. He felt his heart struggling against his breast bone, his breath coming in smoky gasps and coughs.

Charles thought of his son Jonas as fear tried to take over his mind, tried to make him freeze. He wondered briefly if this was the terror his son had known. Charles headed for the front door, trying to weave around the flames. Suddenly, his glance fell on his son’s Purple Heart amidst broken glass. Flames were closing in around it. Wildly Charles tore across the room, desperate to rescue this last remnant of his son, this tribute to his honor. He bent, reaching through the fire, ignoring the searing agony that caught the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Fingers outstretched, he almost had it. He shuffled closer, dropping to his knees, each second an eternity as the flames crept up his arm.