He ambled through the aisle of the convenience store. His hat read “Veteran: World War II.” I beamed at him, as I do at most elderly people, and he stopped moving in order to really smile back. He was shorter than I, wearing beige suspenders, navigating the store with a cane. I thanked him for his service and asked, if he didn’t mind my asking, where was he deployed during the War? He was in the Pacific. I sighed, I could feel my eyebrows gathering down over my now-watery eyes. He drove a boat that took the troops to shore. He spent his 18th and 19th birthdays on invasions. He loitered by the Gatorade. I fought the urge to hug him or see if he wanted to tag along to Nebraska. Friendly has a fine line.

In the parking lot later, he labored to get into his pickup. He hoisted…