Slowly, carefully, James pulled a thin leather cord over his head. Hanging from it was a small weathered pouch, darkened by sweat, age, and time. The leather looked fifty years old. Maybe more.
His hands shook so badly he almost dropped it.
“I kept it with me every day,” he whispered. “Every single day since Vietnam.”
I couldn’t breathe.
He held the pouch toward me, but before I could take it, his eyes filled again.
“Your father made me swear,” he said. “He said if he didn’t make it off that hill, I had to find his son.”
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