December 1941 The letter in Tim's hands shook, but his voice didn’t. He was always steadier than me, even now, standing there in the cold with that damn envelope that might as well have been a tombstone. “I haven’t opened it yet,” he said, eyes flicking to the corner of the park where we used to sit like we were just good friends — just fellas sharing a smoke or talking baseball. Nothing suspicious. Nothing soft. Not here, not in this world. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. I wasn’t drafted. Not even considered. I’m flat-footed and too near-sighted, apparently. Lucky me. Tim tore the seal. The wind cut through my coat like razors, but it wasn’t the cold that made me shiver. What am I supposed to say when the man I can’t call mine is being sent off to die for a country that would jail us if they knew what we were?