“Maya… do you know how to make cinnamon apples?”
I gave a tearful little laugh.
“Roughly. Why?”
“My mother used to make them for me when I was a boy in Ohio.”
I went into the kitchen.
There wasn’t much food left in the house, but I found a can of sliced apples in the pantry, some brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon.
I simmered everything together on the stove.
It wasn’t elegant.
It wasn’t even particularly good.
But when I carried a small bowl back into Victor’s room, his face softened.
He managed two small bites.
Then smiled.
It was the first genuine smile I had seen from him since I came home.
“This is terrible,” he whispered.
I laughed softly.
“But it tastes like home,” he added, his voice thick with emotion.
Then he lifted his left hand.
Victor wore an old sterling-silver Marine Corps signet ring that had been on that hand for forty years.
