Prologue
His long, shaggy beard and filthy, raggedy clothes suggested he was an ordinary bum. I saw a lot on the streets in my neighborhood, and not even his missing legs appealed to my concerns. He could have lost them in any number of ways. What caught my attention was the man’s eyes. His tired, lonely eyes—old in a younger man’s body—told their own story, those and the tags dangling from his neck. This man was a soldier, and our country had failed him. Imagine sacrificing everything, risking your life, and giving your limbs in service to your country, all to be left with nothing.
I didn’t pity the man as I strode toward him. I rather admired him. He wasn’t looking for a handout, and I didn’t see a cardboard sign begging for money or a cup to hold towards every fancy suit who passed by. The man with no legs desired neither money nor shelter; he longed for companionship. This man missed the camaraderie that goes along with being a soldier. I know because I missed it too.
A smile appeared on the soldier’s face when he recognized a kindred spirit. Then I knew he realized I was no ordinary man. After waiting so long to fulfill his destiny, this man feared neither man nor beast.
“Stand up, soldier,” I said as I snapped my fingers. “Walk with me.”
The man glanced downward and didn’t seem surprised when he saw that I had restored his legs.
