“David talked about you constantly. How you worked two jobs to pay for his football gear. How you went without so he could have what he needed. I couldn’t save him, but I could make sure you were okay.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“You held my son while he died. You gave him peace. You gave him morphine. You gave him dignity.” I grabbed his hands. “And you’ve been taking care of me for twelve years without asking for anything in return.”
Thomas finally met my eyes. “He was the best soldier I ever had. The best man. It should have been me, not him.”
“David didn’t think so. He wrote here that you saved him a dozen times. That this time was just his time.”
We sat in that storage unit for two hours, going through the journal together. Thomas told me stories about David I’d never heard. About his bravery. His humor. How he shared his care packages with local kids. How he learned basic Dari to communicate with villagers.
“He was planning to be a teacher,” Thomas said. “Did you know that? Said he wanted to teach high school history. Make it come alive for kids the way you made books come alive for him.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He had it all planned out. Was going to use his GI Bill for college. Already had schools picked out.” Thomas smiled through his tears. “Kid had his whole life mapped out.”
“Except life had other plans.”
I drove Thomas back to my house. Insisted he come inside. His injuries needed proper care, and he needed rest somewhere safe.
“I can’t impose—”
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