“I understood,” Margaret whispered. “I stayed quiet for 97 days. I stayed quiet.”
A man at the end of the table had been staring at Margaret since she mentioned her husband’s name. Grey beard, Vietnam veteran tattoo visible on his forearm. His hands were gripping his coffee cup so hard the knuckles had gone white.
“Bobby Thompson,” he said. “Your husband… was he Army? 101st Airborne?”
Margaret looked at him, confused. “Yes. Three tours in Vietnam. How did you…?””
The man stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Khe Sanh, 1968. I served with your husband.”
Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth.
“My name is Thomas Grant. Everyone calls me Preacher.” His voice was shaking. “Bobby Thompson saved my life. Pulled me out of a burning helicopter while bullets were flying past his head. Carried me two miles through enemy territory with shrapnel in his own leg.”
Tears were streaming down Margaret’s face now. “He never talked about it. Never told me the details.”
“That was Bobby,” Preacher said. “He made me promise something before he died. Did you know that?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I visited him in the hospital last week before he passed. He grabbed my hand and said, ‘Watch over Maggie if something happens. She’s too trusting. The world takes advantage of people like her.’”
Preacher slammed his palm on the table. “I tried to visit you after the funeral! A woman at the door said you weren’t receiving visitors. She said everyone had forgotten about you.”
“That woman was Denise,” Margaret whispered.

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