The man whose folded flag sat in my storage unit.
Melissa touched his face.
“I knew Danny.”
My throat closed.
“How?”
“He was my fiancé.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
“Before Claire ever met you.”
“No.”
Danny never told me.
Or perhaps he had.
We all used first names overseas.
Girlfriend.
Fiancée.
Girl back home.
We rarely exchanged surnames.
Melissa’s eyes filled.
“Danny told me about you
constantly. Cole this. Cole that. The crazy guy who could sleep through mortar fire. The guy who carried him six miles after he broke his ankle in training.”
I sat down.
Danny had died during our final deployment together.
Not in combat.
After.
Back stateside.
He overdosed in a motel outside Norfolk.
At least that was
