“You did?” I said, stunned.

“It was April, like now,” he murmured, almost to himself. “There were wildflowers growing on the side of the road as we advanced and that morning I was thinking about Betsy. A few years after I enlisted, I wrote her and asked how she was. She wrote me back and told me she’d married a man and was expecting a baby. I bet that baby is real cute but I was glad she didn’t send me a photograph.”

“You never told me any of that.”

“I wanted her to know I’d found my feet, you know? That I thought of her fondly and always would. And ever since that first letter, she’s written to me every few months. If I’d found a way to marry her, I’d have picked those wildflowers in Germany and preserved them to bring them home to her.”

“And…the camp?” I prompted gently. He reached for the tongs, then lifted a piece of chicken out of the pan to rest on a plate. “Henry?” I prompted.

The front door slammed and Henry startled. He dropped the tongs and accidentally touched the hot plate when he tried to pick them up, then cried out with pain and panic as he looked to the kitchen door as an unsuspecting Calvin appeared.

Since Henry’s troubles began, I’d come to suspect he had what they called combat fatigue, although I’d never been able to get him to see a doctor. One day, I went to the library in El Paso to find some information. One of the books the librarian gave me said that when a man had combat fatigue, the trauma of war didn’t return to him as memories, but as reactions. In moments like that one at the stove, it really did seem that Henry’s brain had been switched off and every move he made was pure, unfiltered instinct.

“Henry?” I said softly, but he was still looking around the room like he wasn’t sure where he was. I spoke louder, stepping closer to him again, trying to get his attention. “Henry! Are you okay? Honey, I’m right here with you.”

“What’s going on?” Calvin asked, concerned. Henry pushed past me and Cal—stomping down the hall and out the back door toward his apartment, slamming the screen door behind him. Calvin looked at me, scanning for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”

“Of course he didn’t hurt me!” I snapped.

Five long years had passed since the war ended. Most of the time I thought I’d come to accept that Henry would never again be like he was, but every now and again, I discovered I had to grieve all over again. I pointed after my brother as I glared at Calvin and said, “This is what those bastards did to him. And Christopher seriously thinks I’m going to invite them over here for coffee?”