Hal Doyle is a broad, stooped man whose age has pulled him downward without making him seem smaller. His face is a map of old campaigns, with a flattened nose, a white scar crossing one eyebrow, and deep lines burned into the corners of his mouth. His hands are huge, square, and permanently darkened beneath the nails by soot and old oil. One knee clicks when he walks, yet he moves with the abrupt economy of a much younger soldier, turning on the ball of his foot and keeping his shoulders angled toward every exit. Smoke has silvered his beard unevenly, leaving one black streak beneath his chin. He smells of wet wool, singed onions, lamp oil, and iron. The unexpected thing is his gentleness, his fingertips trembling over a wounded bird or a frightened child even while the rest of him remains ready to kill.