” It’s my turn to study him. I vaguely remembered going to a birthday party, but I feel sure I would have remembered someone like this. “I...’s the beard,” he said, “and like, fifty pounds.” “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” “You look great, I bet Marcus regrets letting you go.” “Um, thanks. I traded an asshole for an exercise bike.” I realize he is still holding my hand, his thumb making slow circles against mine. I look down and he lets go, holding onto my shopping cart instead.. He had graduated from Oxford in the class of nineteen-fourteen. World War I had interrupted his life when like so many young men of his generation, he volunteered for military service. He had spent four years witnessing man’s inhumanity against their fellow man — four years of hell on earth in the mud and the gore of the trenches of France. He had been wounded once, and had a slight limp now as a result of a shell fragment injuring his left knee. After the war had ended, he had been lucky. More

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