He stood in the doorway of the hospice room with his cap in his hands.
“Rhodes,” he said.
Greg opened his eyes.
“Hollis,” he whispered.
Sergeant Hollis. From Iraq. From Tennessee.
Nathan had found him. On Facebook. A 101st Airborne veterans group. He’d posted a picture of his dad’s jacket. The patch. The name tape.
Looking for anyone who served with Sgt. Gregory Rhodes, 2004–2006. He’s in hospice in Lexington. He doesn’t have much time.
Hollis drove four hours from Clarksville.
He sat by the bed for three hours. He held Greg’s hand. They didn’t talk much. Greg couldn’t talk much anymore.
But when Hollis left, Greg was smiling.
He died on the sixth day.
Ezoic
A Thursday. In the afternoon. The sun was coming in the window, lighting up the orange leaves on the trees outside.
Ezoic
Nathan was holding one of his hands. I was holding the other.
