Nathan sat in the passenger seat. He held onto his seatbelt with both hands.
And he told me.
August twenty-fourth. A Saturday. Nathan and Cole had driven to a gas station on New Circle Road to get Slurpees. Cole had just gotten his license. They were celebrating.
Ezoic
Nathan went inside to pay. When he came out, there was a man sitting on the curb by the ice machine.
Thin. Very thin. Gray beard. Yellow skin. Not tan. Yellow. Like old newspaper. His stomach was swollen out under his shirt like he was pregnant, even though the rest of him was all bones.
He was wearing an olive green army jacket. In August. In ninety-degree heat.
Ezoic
Nathan walked past him.
Then he stopped.
He turned around.
He looked at the jacket. At the screaming eagle on the shoulder.
At the name tape.
RHODES.
“I knew it was him,” Nathan said. “I knew right away. I didn’t even have to see his face. I remember that jacket. I remember him wearing it when he carried me on his shoulders. I remember the patch. I used to trace the eagle with my finger.”
