The small metal wings rested in his palm, dull beneath the harsh cafeteria light.
“This belonged to Andrew Bell,” George said.
His voice was barely above conversational, but no one missed a word.
“He was twenty-two. He was braver than I was. He gave me this because he thought I would need luck.”
George looked at Miller then, really looked at him, and Miller could not hold the gaze for long.
“I have carried it because he could not carry anything after that day.”
No one spoke.
Davis felt the words settle inside him with a strange, painful gentleness.
Thorne’s face had gone still, but his eyes shone in a way that made even the toughest men look away.
George closed his fingers around the pin.
“I came here today because someone invited me to speak to a training class tomorrow,” he continued.
“I almost said no. I thought maybe there was nothing useful left for me to say.”
The old man looked around the room, not accusing, simply seeing them.
“Now I’m less sure.”
That was the true blow, and everyone felt it.
Miller’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Not enough to become humility, but enough to show the first crack.
George placed the pin back on his lapel with careful fingers that took longer than before.
