The date: September 11, 2001.
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!”