A week later, after making my second trip to Washington DC, I stand at the top of the steps above the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, overlooking this portion of Arlington Cemetery.

Next to me, Dan shifts his weight to lean closer. He pats my back to express what he won’t say. Keep it together. This will be over soon.

“Pretty sharp,” he whispers, referring to what counts for his first ever in-person experience with honor guard proceedings.

Below us, the skinny infantrimen in ceremonial uniforms march back and forth, clicking their boots on the rubber mat. They snap to attention, inspect one another, twirl their rifles this way and that, snap some more, and stand at attention to salute the remnants of that poor soul whose name no one could determine upon his passing when he made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

Well, I don’t have that problem. I didn’t make the ultimate sacrifice, and my name sure ain’t unknown by any definition. Far from it. Which in turn means I have a problem of a different sort, the kind that plants me here at the top of these steps in preparation to deal with that subpoena.

How do these two things relate to each other?

Oh, some White House public relations guru thought this—me dressed in full uniform, ready to take part of a wreath-laying ceremony—would provide an excellent reminder of my own service before those congressional rascals shove me through their grinder. Candice, my own clandestine PR gal, who came along for this ride, concurred.

“Strong optic,” she said, adding, “super strong,” for emphasis.

She stands not far from me now, and when I cast a furtive glance her way, she gives me a tight little nod. Her eyes tell it. I’ll do OK. This, here, laying this wreath hours before I set foot for the first time in that committee chamber? Gold. Buzz to the max. Or else why would the cameras point my way, red lights on, capturing this poignant moment?

Down below, the departure of the head guard, and that of the infantrymen’s whose duty hour has elapsed, marks the end of the changing of the guard. The two of them march off, stiff-like, step by clicking step, and turn right around the corner to disappear from view.

The crowd, a strange mix of tourists and middle-grade dignitaries, turn to me. They eye me like I’m supposed to do something now. From behind me, stepping out through the door of the building, a woman comes out holding a wreath. She hands it to me.

At my side, Dan helps me get a good grip on it. Wouldn’t want this thing to go rolling and tumbling down the steps. Its weight and girth merit assistance.

We stand there some more for what feels like an eternity. Then they come, the clicking, thwipping steps of that head guard. Click-thwip-click-thwip, like a clock that beats with relentless precision. Click-thwip-click-thwip he comes around the corner, stiff as a board. He turns and clicks his heels when he reaches the bottom of the steps, directly under me now.

He tilts his head up at me, and then here he comes, step by flawless step up the stairs, eyes fixed on me, though I can’t really see them behind them thin, dark eyeglasses. When he reaches us, he works through perfunctory instructions, most of which I’ve already heard at least once earlier in the day. I nod, not really hearing him. My gaze drifts over his shoulder, down to the tomb and past it to the grounds beyond.

Hallowed ground, I read an hour ago on one of the signs at the visitor center. I nod at that, too. Whatever else may go on here, I can bank on that. Whatever my imperfections, and whatever the machinations of others may mean for me and my future, something greater and worthier of reverence lies all about me.

Honor, I tell myself after a search for the right words lands me on that simple one. Honor that gave it all. Honor that bled and died. More than comfort me, that thought lashes at me. Do I have it? Can I claim it? Honor?

Soon, the guard gets done with his instructions. He turns, pauses for a beat, then takes his first step down. Coming in we discussed whether I should curl my arm through Dan’s. Women would normally do that to steady themselves, we were told. But I ain’t wearing heels, and I’m sporting a uniform instead. That adds up to, no, I make it down on my own, even if from time to time my prosthetic legs call my own balance into question.

The stepping troubles me none. It’s the heat that wells up in my chest and the tightening of my throat that threatens to undo me. I swallow to stuff all of it back down. It works for a spell. It works long enough to let me hook the wreath on its easel. It keeps working while I fuss with the flowers to straighten them out.

Then I take a step back. With a deep breath, I straighten myself out, and in sync with our host, I snap into my sharpest salute. But that’s all I have. I hold that salute for a count of five seconds, and as I lower my hand, my insides give way.

I keep standing, though. Give me that, you who are watching me through them video cameras. My lip may quiver, my eyes may water, and my core may tremble. But I keep standing. Tears roll down my cheek and seep through my lips, bitter and warm. But here I stand.

It takes Dan a few seconds to hone in on what to do. Should he seek to comfort a person in uniform? Or should he give her the space she needs?

When at last he places a hand between my shoulder blades, I turn to him and let my face hide in his chest. Contorted in a silent cry, it remains there. He wraps his arms around me, and it’s all I can do to not let my knees buckle.

They’re watching me now, boy, breaking down here in front of this hallowed monument, while cameras roll to capture this all too known soldier who must soon give an account for what she’s done, what she’s taken part in, and what legs she straps on each morning so that she can stand.

Thank you for reading this installment of Wounded Honor. Leading up to and following it’s release on April 21, I will be sharing preview samples for my readers. Keep checking in, and don’t forget to join my Reader’s Club if you haven’t already to stay up to date on future announcements and giveaways.