The letter was short: “Mom, the journal explains everything. The other item is for Morrison. Tell him thank you for everything. Tell him I knew about his son. Tell him we’re even now.”
“Your son?” I asked.
I unwrapped the cloth item. It was a Purple Heart. Thomas’s Purple Heart, I realized, seeing his name engraved on it.
“You gave this to David?”
“He was having a bad day. Questioning why we were there. Whether any of it mattered. I gave him my Purple Heart and told him that every sacrifice mattered. That every soldier mattered.” Thomas touched the medal gently. “He carried it everywhere after that. Said it reminded him that even the worst days had purpose.”
I opened David’s journal. Page after page of entries about his squad. About Thomas especially. How Thomas shared his food when supplies ran low. How he stood watch so others could sleep. How he carried wounded soldiers for miles. How he wrote letters for guys who couldn’t write.
The last entry was dated the day David died:
“Morrison thinks I don’t know he’s been sending money to my mom. But I hacked into his laptop (sorry, Sarge). Half his combat pay has been going to Mom for six months. He set it up to look like increased death benefits. She has no idea. That’s why I’m leaving him something in return. He’ll understand when the time comes. If I die today, at least I die knowing Mom will be taken care of. Morrison will make sure of that. He’s the father I wish I’d had.”
I looked at Thomas, this broken biker on my porch at dawn. “You’ve been sending me money?”
He nodded, not meeting my eyes. “Set it up through a shell company. Made it look like additional military benefits. Been sending $1,000 a month for twelve years.”
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