I looked down at the hand-carved inscription on the arm of the cedar rocking chair beside my knee:
BUILT PLUMB. HELD TRUE.
MERCER-VANCE HOMESTEAD // ESTABLISHED 1944
A slow, radiant, permanent smile broke across Ethan Vance’s face—a smile that held zero fear, zero debts, zero lies, and zero graves.
I looked out over the forty miles of clean, sweet Pacific water where my father’s memory and my son’s future had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Dad,” Ethan Vance whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“The house is clean.”
“And around here…”
I stood up from the chair, holding my son toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the harbor chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“…nobody ever, ever… hurts my family again.”
