cabinet.”
I stared at it.
There was handwriting on the front.
My name.
Not printed.
Handwritten.
QUINN BRADDOCK — TO BE DELIVERED IF FOUND.
My throat tightened.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was in a collection donated by a retired Army officer.”
I touched the envelope.
The handwriting was familiar.
Too familiar.
I knew those letters.
I had seen them on birthday cards, Christmas envelopes, and notes passed between hospital beds.
My fingers began to tremble.
Whitaker noticed.
“Would you like me to open it?”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I’ll do it.”
The envelope was sealed with old adhesive.
I carefully opened the flap.
Inside was a folded letter and a small photograph.
I lifted the photograph first.
It showed a young man standing outside a military hospital.
He was tall, thin, and smiling.
His uniform was dusty.
His left sleeve was rolled up.
There was a bandage around his right hand.
I knew that face.
I had not seen it since 1969.
“Thomas,” I whispered.
Private Martinez leaned forward.
“Who is he?”
I could not answer immediately.
His
