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“David didn’t think so. He wrote here that you saved him a dozen times. That this time was just his time.”
We sat in that storage unit for two hours, going through the journal together. Thomas told me stories about David I’d never heard. About his bravery. His humor. How he shared his care packages with local kids. How he learned basic Dari to communicate with villagers.
“I didn’t know that.”
“He had it all planned out. Was going to use his GI Bill for college. Already had schools picked out.” Thomas smiled through his tears. “Kid had his whole life mapped out.”
“Yeah. It always does.”
“I can’t impose—”
Thomas stayed for three days. I cleaned his wounds, fed him, and listened to his stories. He told me about his motorcycle club—the Guardians—all veterans who’d lost people. How they visited Gold Star families. How they protected abuse victims. How they tried to make meaning from their pain.
On the third night, Thomas said something that changed me.
“We saved each other,” I said. “Without knowing it.”
“David knew. Somehow, that kid knew we’d need each other.”