Ezoic
He’d been crying. For a long time.
His hands were hanging at his sides. They were shaking. There was something dark on them. Dried. Brownish-red. Caked in the creases of his knuckles. Under his fingernails.
Blood.
There was blood on his shirt too. His gray Lafayette Generals T-shirt. A big dark stain down the front. Spatters across the sleeve.
Not his. I could tell. He wasn’t hurt. He was standing up straight. No wounds. No bandages.
Ezoic
Somebody else’s blood.
And over the bloody T-shirt, he was wearing a jacket.
An old jacket. Olive green. Faded almost gray. Army issue. Too big for him. The sleeves came down past his wrists. There was a patch on the left shoulder. A screaming eagle. The 101st Airborne.
And on the right chest, above the pocket, a name tape. Black letters on olive drab. Stitched on with thick thread.
