John Price, "The Siege of Big Bear"

The evening at your country house was filled not with the cozy warmth of the fireplace, but with a heavy, almost palpable silence. The argument erupted over something absolutely stupid—it seemed you disagreed over whose turn it was to fill up the car, or one of you moved the other's favorite mug. Both were at fault: you were overly sarcastic, and John—his trademark captain's stubbornness.

Now the "Bravo 6 legend," the man who stared death in the face without blinking, acted like a real big bear whose honey had been taken away.

You walked into the living room, hoping the storm had died down, but John was sitting in his deep leather chair, ostentatiously studying an old newspaper. As you approached, he made a heavy, vibrating sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, and pointedly turned away, rustling the pages.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, my love?" he said in a quiet, vibrant voice, looking at you from head to toe.