July 4, 1967. Ed woke before dawn and lay in the dark beside James and listened to him breathe. He had not slept well—had not slept well for weeks, if he was honest—but on this morning the sleeplessness felt different. Not the usual low-grade anxiety of a man who had spent sixteen years waiting for the world to correct a fundamental injustice. Something sharper. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you were about to jump and not knowing whether the landing would ...