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He’s eligible to be interred in Arlington, but Linda is buried next to the stillborn baby they’d lost thirty years prior, and Bob’s wishes were to be reunited with them in his death.

So that’s where I will put him to rest.

But for today, I sit here at his wake surrounded by his ex-military buddies, about a dozen or so grizzled old men, listening to their stories. They’re not of war even though many of the stories originate from Desert Storm. They’re stories of his sense of humour. Of the practical jokes he loved so much.

They’re of Bob’isms.

Of his indefatigable – even back then in the middle of a war – sense that people were good and that even at the end of a gun, kindness and empathy went a long way. That people were people the world over and they wanted the same things.

Peace. Love. Security. Being able to provide for family.

Triton gave the eulogy and quoted the Mr Rogers quote, and everyone nodded and smiled to themselves because we’d all heard it slip from Bob’s lips more than once.

As I listen to these men who loved and admired him so much, my own memories play like a movie reel through my brain. Bob teaching me how to fix a flat. Bob insisting that I help him cook in the kitchen every night. Bob assuring me my mother loved me, it was just that some people weren’t equipped to be alone.

In so many ways he had provided for me. He’d given me peace, love and security. And I know I’m going to miss his quiet wisdom every day.

I wish Holly was here. I think these guys would like her, especially if she threw in a couple of her own Bob stories. And I miss her. Even giving her space like I have been doing back home these past weeks, just knowing she was in the same building, within easy reach, has been enough. But she feels very far away in Reno.

Too far.

We talk. Text mostly. Between making all the arrangements and commiserating with these guys and her shift work and study, it’s easier to drop a message that she can respond to when she gets a moment than making yet another call that goes to her voicemail. Messages can be responded to in those gaps she talks about. Conversations require much more time and, as she was at pains to tell me, she is exceptionally time poor.

But now I’m heading home tomorrow, there’s an itch in my blood to see her again. Bob’s death has just reiterated some of the things he taught me. Life is fleeting.

Grab it with both hands.

Excusing myself, I pick up my near empty drink and head to the bar, plonking my ass on a stool and indicating through thatuniversal bar sign language that the guy serving should pour another round.

A guy everyone calls Eagle but whose name is actually Ernie takes the stool to my right. He’s black and built, with a shock of white hair. He served in Desert Storm with Bob and looks like he could be an enforcer for a biker gang, even in a suit, but it turns out he’s a lawyer. He’s helped with the arrangements and has been trying to track down Bob’s will, which wasn’t conveniently on his laptop for easy access.

Triton, who’d disappeared for a while, takes the bar stool on the other side, dropping a large duffel bag on my lap. ‘I’ve been going through the RV and found this stashed under the bed.’ Bob always stayed in Triton’s decaying old RV parked in his back yard when he came to Reno. ‘I’d forgotten about it in the shock of it all.’

The zipper has a thick paper tag attached to it which is yellow from age. ‘For Danny Colton’ is scribbled on it in black Sharpie.

I stare at it as Triton takes one of the beers the waiter has poured. It’s bulky and heavy on my lap as I toy with the tag, the sight of Bob’s terrible handwriting taking me back to the notes he’d left scrawled on scraps of paper when some building emergency or other meant he wouldn’t be home when I got in from school.

What’s in it, I wonder? Something related to his service? Some kind of military go-bag in case of apocalypse? Or something more personal? Something that any of these men would probably be more deserving of?

I unzip the bag and for a moment am confused by the rolls of paper inside. And then I realise. It’s… money. A shit ton of money.

Dumbfounded, I pull out a couple of rolls. All ten-dollar bills secured by rubber bands.

I frown at Triton. Then at Eagle. Then back at Triton. ‘This is… money.’

‘Yup.’ Triton chuckles. ‘Sure is. That’s pretty much all the money he’s earned since he’s been coming to Reno.’

I blink, not quite able to believe my eyes. The bag is full of it. ‘There must be…’

‘Couple of hundred thousand,’ Triton supplies casually. ‘He was a lucky sonofabitch.’

Two hundred thousand dollars? In my lap. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Bob usually always won big at least once per trip. He’d get it cashed out and chuck it in this bag. For a rainy day. That’s what he said.’

If this is supposed to make sense, then it doesn’t. ‘Why didn’t he put it in a savings account?’ It wasn’t like he was one of those old guys who mistrusted banks.

Triton shrugs. ‘I think that was always the plan. He just never got around to it. And then I think he liked the idea of having a stash of cash somewhere. You can take the guy out of the army and all that.’