Ezoic
The sergeant of the honor guard knelt down in front of Nathan. He held out the folded flag.
Ezoic
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation,” he said, “please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Nathan took the flag.
He held it against his chest. Over the olive green jacket. Over the name tape that said RHODES.
He didn’t cry. Not then.
He just stood there in front of his father’s grave holding the flag.
Afterward, Sergeant Hollis came over.
He shook Nathan’s hand. He held it for a long time.
“Son,” he said. “Your dad saved my life. Twice. In Iraq. Did he ever tell you that?”
Nathan shook his head.
“He wouldn’t,” Hollis said. “He never talked about the good stuff. Only the bad.” He looked at the grave. “October of ‘05. Outside Tikrit. I got hit. Shrapnel. In the leg. Your dad dragged me two hundred yards under fire. On his back. Then he went back for Martinez.”
