The old man behind the country store counter clasped my hand with eagle talon strength, squeezing tighter and tighter, his pained, bloodshot eyes locked with mine. Panicking, wishing I had not stopped for a cold drink, disregarding change from the bill on the counter for payment, I struggled to free my hand and flee.
“They hit us! They hit us!” he bellowed over and over. “Me and my brother … we fought in the Pacific. My brother, he never come back. I seen war’s death and destruction, but it was over yonder. Now I see it all over again, right here in America — the country my brother died for!”
The date: September 11, 2001.