Fifteen minutes to the deadline. Fifteen minutes to write the words that would end the career of a man who had once saved his life...

Private Alexander Huxley sat in the hull of the C-47, jaw clenched and lips twisted into a savage grimace. The weight of his parachute kept him hunched in his seat, and the straps of his harness and weapon case chafed raw swathes into his skin.

Doctor Hendall sat down at his mahogany desk and drummed his fingers on the finish. On the back wall, he had a silver plaque that said, “Semper Fidelis.” His three piece-suit made me feel like I was going to be prosecuted by an attorney.

He crouched down on both knees to look under the vehicle. When he said, “Oh God!” it wasn’t in his adult voice, but in a child’s voice, like the time he had accidentally run over his little brother’s leg with his dirt bike.

Charlie and John Green were brothers. They were raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Jackson County, North Carolina.

I muttered a quick prayer for my soul’s renewal, hoping the words would catch on the hawk’s wings and be taken to wherever such prayers should go.

Ever since he had dropped out of college, ended up in a seedy area of the city, and found a part-time job at a bar, he had no desire to play it or write songs.

“I do hope he likes them,” Doris thought to herself over and over again. They were, after all, very special cookies for a very special person.