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Summary
The hardest part was the haunting knowledge that the next time the deadbolt turned, it might not be Johnny returning with mud on his boots and mischief in his eyes. It could as well be a pair of polished, black service shoes on the porch, and a stranger in a pristine dress uniform holding his breath, preparing to tell you they were so, so sorry for your loss. Loving a man who loved to run toward the fire meant constantly mourning him in small increments just to survive the distance.