Some had pins on them representing specific units. They were all very old now,

the youngest of them in their late eighties. Almost all were in wheelchairs or

used walkers or canes to get around. They were gray, bent, but their features

were proud, animated. They had fought the good fight and survived to have

families and retirements and tour bus rides augmented with Cracker Barrel

feasts.

 

Rogers thought, I fought the good fight too. And I have nothing.

 

Except he had a chance to make it all right. And he intended to give it the best

shot he possibly could.

 

He finished his meal and hit the highway, driving right into the building storm.

 

He had something to get and he needed a special place to get it.

 

Fortunately, he had passed a billboard that held the answer. And that would

delay his reaching his destination. But that was okay. There would be time.

 

He slept in his car in the parking lot of a shuttered Walmart.

 

Things must be getting bad, he thought, if Walmarts couldn’t stay in business.

 

It was chilly and rainy and the Chevy’s passenger-side window leaked. He watched

the drips for a few minutes and then fell asleep.