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“Did you tell Bree and the others?” asked Trak, frowning at his grandson.
“No, sir. Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first. I’m worried that he might hurt them, or he might hurt himself. He’s a nice man. I’ve tried to talk to him, and I think he tries to talk back, but it’s like he can’t.”
“It’s possible he would try to harm someone,” said Miguel. “But with our men there, they could help him. Is he there now?”
“Yes, sir. He should be. He’s usually there every Saturday all day. Some people give him a few bucks, but most just walk by him. I tried to talk to him last week, but he just stared off into space as if I wasn’t even there.”
“Why don’t we get some men and go see him,” said Trak. Nate nodded, happy that his grandfather was picking up on what he really wanted to do.
With Wilson, Ghost, Antoine, Clay, and Mac, the men drove to the gas station with Nate in the back of one of the SUVs. As they pulled in, Nate pointed to the man seated on the bench.
“That’s him, análi hastiin. He doesn’t look good today. Usually, he’s got his little dog with him.”
“Stay in the car, Nate,” said Trak.
“But he knows me.” Nate tried to step out and protest, but his grandfather shook his head at him.
“Stay in the car.” Trak stepped out of the SUV and walked toward the man. “Good afternoon.”
The face of someone in pain stared back at him. The lines etched in his face like potholes on a road that no one wanted to travel. The dark, cloudy eyes showed the mirage of death in his eyes. His hands were dirty, gnarled before their time. He knew that face. It had been his own at one time before he met Lauren.
Looking at this man, he could have been fifty or twenty-five. It was difficult to tell.
“My grandson comes here often and speaks with you. He was worried about you,” said Trak. The man tried to stand but fell backward.
“Whoa,” said Wilson. “May I check you out? Examine you? I’m a medic.”
“A medic?” he frowned. “No. No, you can’t save them. More are coming! We have to leave. We have to leave. I can’t leave them. You can’t save them! It’s too late to save them. There’s too much blood. Too much! They’re all gone! All of them!”
Wilson slowly reached for his shoulder, gently laying his hand on him. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but it was clear that something was wrong.
“I just want to be sure you’re okay. I know that I can’t help the others,” said Wilson in a soft voice. Moving with slow precision, he touched his wrist to check his pulse. Looking down at his shoes, he realized they were a worn pair of combat boots, separating at the sole.
“What branch were you in?” asked Trak. He finally lifted his eyes, meeting Trak’s. It nearly made his knees buckle. He’d seen that look before. Too many times, and it was gutting him.
“Army. Field artillery.”
“We were all in,” said Ghost, kneeling in front of the man. “I was a SEAL, so was Wilson there. Trak here; he was Delta. Antoine was a Ranger. Clay was a Marine. So was Mac. We understand what you’re feeling, son.”
“My dog is dead.” He made the statement without emotion, as if he were reporting the nightly news.
“We’re really sorry about that,” said Ghost. “Where are you living?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“What’s your name?” asked Trak.
“Pritchett.”
“Pritchett. We’d like to help you. We can help to find you a place to stay, warm and dry. Maybe even get you another dog. We want to help you get well.”
He started to show signs of agitation, and Wilson stood, hoping to give him some space. Each of the men took a step back as he squirmed on the bench. They didn’t want to hurt him, and they damn sure didn’t want to force him to get help. But they couldn’t leave a brother like this.
He stood abruptly, suddenly wielding a knife at the men. Taking another step back, they held up their hands.
“You’re trying to hurt me!” he cried.
“We only want to help,” said Trak in a calm, even voice.
