And of course Radar does. He still doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but Radar does. Radar has always been so—so unfailingly decent, and to think Mulcahy only ever knew him in war.

The thing about holding the pieces of yourself in a vice grip to keep it together so that you can still resemble a person, is that at some point, if you want to let go, you have to fall. Have to open the kitchen cabinet with the spilled plates leaning against the door. If you want to catch it, it can’t be you. He doesn’t need a strong hand there. He just needs one at all.

Mulcahy’s hands grip the back of Radar’s shirt, and quietly, he breaks into childish weeping.