The thought did not arrive like thunder. It came quietly, with the weariness of a bill finally placed on the table.
George set down his cup.
His hand moved to the pin, and this time he unfastened it.
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.”
