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I took hold of his wrist. His skin felt paper-thin, stretched over bone. I slid the key into the cuff, turned it, and heard the metal click open. He exhaled softly and extended his arm a little, trying to ease the pressure.
That was when his sleeve slipped back.
And time stopped.
On his left bicep was a tattoo so faded it looked like it had been pulled up from the bottom of a river. The ink had blurred into his skin over decades, green and black softened by age. But even faded, it was unmistakable.
A military insignia.
The 101st Airborne Division.
The Screaming Eagles.
