“Sorry, old-timer,” he said. “Wrong room.”
But then he saw my Purple Heart sitting on the nightstand. Saw my veteran’s cap hanging on the wall. And he stopped.
“You served?” he asked.
“Vietnam. ’68 to ’70.” I could barely get the words out. The cancer’s in my lungs and throat now.
Marcus walked back into my room. Stood at attention. Saluted me. “Thank you for your service, brother.”
Nobody had called me brother in fifty years.
He sat down in the chair next to my bed. “You got family coming to visit today?”
I shook my head. Couldn’t speak anymore without crying.
“When’s the last time someone visited?”
I held up six fingers. Six months.
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