George set down his cup.
His hand moved to the pin, and this time he unfastened it.
The small metal wings rested in his palm, dull beneath the harsh cafeteria light.
“This belonged to Andrew Bell,” George said.
His voice was barely above conversational, but no one missed a word.
“He was twenty-two. He was braver than I was. He gave me this because he thought I would need luck.”
George looked at Miller then, really looked at him, and Miller could not hold the gaze for long.
“I have carried it because he could not carry anything after that day.”
No one spoke.
Davis felt the words settle inside him with a strange, painful gentleness.
Thorne’s face had gone still, but his eyes shone in a way that made even the toughest men look away.
George closed his fingers around the pin.
