Frank Johnson left his home in Pelham, Virginia, for what he hoped would be the serenity of Scarab, West Virginia. A cabin in the woods; living a more naturally. What he finds instead is Stinger missiles, walking fish insignias and t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
Shouldering the duffel bag with the Marine Corps bulldog, Old Man knocked Jan's photo off the bed table. He turned to stone staring down at the photo. His face then splintered into hurt. Tears seeped into his eyes. He grappled for the nearest bedpost and slumped forward on extended arms. His shoulders jerked and head sagged a little while his heart broke. Old Man cried the mute cry of men of his generation.