Skip to content This kid had never met any of us. But he knew us. Thunder Mike had taught him to know us.
“Daddy’s home,” the boy said.
Every one of us tough old bastards felt our eyes burn.
The mother finally found her voice. “I’m Sarah. Mike was my husband. He died six months ago.”
“We were at the funeral,” Big Jim said gently. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I couldn’t go. Tommy couldn’t handle it.” She looked at her son, still gripping my vest. “He doesn’t do well with changes. Since Mike died, he hasn’t spoken. The doctors said he might never speak again.”
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and showed me a photo. Mike and me from last year’s charity run. My eagle patch clearly visible.
“He had dozens of these. Pictures of all of you. He’d show them to Tommy every night before bed. Tell him stories about each of you.”
“Mike was preparing him,” Spider said quietly. “Teaching him to recognize us.”
