But just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. His gaze landed on the Purple Heart, and in an instant, everything about him shifted—his posture, his expression, even the way he breathed.
I nodded. He stepped fully inside now, removing his hat with the kind of respect that men who’ve known real violence instinctively give to each other.
“My name’s Marcus,” he said, closing the door softly. “Mind if I sit?”
He pulled a chair close to my bed without waiting for an answer. It was the first real conversation I’d had in weeks. We talked about my service, his service, the years that had carved lines into our hands and faces. He asked about my children, and I told him the truth: they hadn’t visited in a long time.
Marcus clenched his jaw.
“That ain’t right,” he murmured. “A man shouldn’t be left alone like this.”
Continue reading…
