My knees nearly gave out. The boy introduced himself as Theo, and said his grandfather was Paul Greer. My throat closed. I had spent fifty years believing that boy had died in the mud. Theo told me quickly that his grandpa had lived, lost a leg, and gone home to Ohio. He had kept my name in a shoebox for half a century, but he had never known where I had gone.

“He is here,” Theo said, pointing across the street. “He drove all night to see the parade, because he found your name in a newspaper.” I turned slowly. Beside a parked van sat an old man in a wheelchair, in a faded green jacket, with a cane across his knees. He was staring at me, shaking, with both hands pressed to his mouth.