Aria felt conflicted watching him. On the one hand, his sense of entitlement and the shame he used as a tool of extortion were enough to make you hate him. Many of the citizens he was now guilting, including herself, had never wanted him to go to war in the first place. It’s hard to feel grateful for a sacrifice you never wanted or asked someone to make. But on the other hand, he was right. Aria imagined that in his position, she would be angry too if she had offered up her life for someone or something else and in return had ended up losing everything; reduced to constant pain both emotionally and physically. The country had turned its back on him, especially the very institutions that had promised him belonging in the first place. Like a broken Springfield Model civil war rifle, he was now a forgotten symbol of war. Patched together and gathering dust, he was no longer a tool the government could use for the violence of their foreign policy.

Like that broken gun, Darren was less devastated to be on the shelf than he was to be considered worthless now, his dignity abolished by every passerby that ignored him.

Taylor and Aria decided to cross the street perpendicular to where he was sitting. They did so without him ever noticing that they were there. When they reached the church, the line was shorter than it had been the last time they had come there. The big black woman, Imani, was manning the table once again, her rich, welcoming smile pulling people down the line. She seemed happy to see Aria again, which took Aria by surprise. “How you two doin’?” she asked, ladling chili into two paper bowls on the table in front of her.

“We’re OK ma’am, how are you?” Taylor answered, suddenly reverting to the manners that were beaten into him in his youth.

“Well, I’m fine today, just fine,” she responded, pausing to collect two care kits from a cardboard box underneath the table before continuing to speak. “We’ve got these here for you today. Some deodorant, some hand lotion and chapstick and some baby wipes. The kids made ’em themselves.” She pointed to each item as she listed them, all of which had been carefully packed in a plastic ziplock bag.

Taylor and Aria paused awkwardly, not knowing if they should take the bowls and care packages from the table themselves or whether they should wait for her to hand them over directly, until Imani broke that pause. “You know I’d been hopin’ to see you here again. I wrote the number down to my office in case you ever wanted some help with anythin’. We’ve got some great programs you might like.” She handed Aria a business card, which advertised the church. On its back, she had handwritten her phone number and her name.