“David gave this to me two hours before he died,” Thomas said. “Made me promise to deliver it to you personally. Not mail it. Not have the Army deliver it. Put it in your hands myself.”
“That was twelve years ago,” I whispered.
“The Army said he died in an IED explosion. That you all did.”
Thomas shook his head slowly. “Three of us survived. Barely. I was in a coma for four months. Had to learn to walk again. By the time I was functional, a year had passed. I came to find you but you’d moved. Left no forwarding address.”
That was true. After David’s death, I’d sold everything and moved across the country. Couldn’t bear the memories in our old house.
“I hired a private investigator five years ago,” Thomas continued. “Found out you’d remarried, changed your name to Chen. Found your address. Came to your door three times. Could never knock. Kept thinking about what I’d say. How I’d explain.”
“Explain what?”
Thomas closed his eyes. “That David didn’t die instantly. That he lived for two hours. That I held him while he bled out because the medevac couldn’t get to us. That he talked about you the whole time.”
I felt the world tilt. Everything the Army told me was a lie.
“He wasn’t in pain,” Thomas said quickly. “I made sure of that. Used all our morphine. He was… peaceful. Talked about you like you were sitting right there with us. Told me stories about teaching him to ride a bike. About making him peanut butter and banana sandwiches. About reading him The Hobbit when he was sick.”
