The wallet was cheap and cracked. I saw it fall from an old man’s pocket at a bus stop and handed it back.
Inside was a photo—and a yellowed military commendation. I froze.
It described a medic who pulled a wounded sergeant from a burning Humvee in Fallujah.
The sergeant was me.
I looked up and finally recognized him beneath the beard and worn clothes.
“Arthur Vance?” I whispered.
He’d saved my life—and lost his own to guilt over the soldier he couldn’t save. Years later, that guilt left him homeless.
I bought him breakfast. Then we took on a new mission: meeting the fallen soldier’s parents.
They didn’t blame him. They thanked him. Their son had written about “Doc Vance,” calling him a hero.
A year later, Arthur has a home, a job helping veterans, and peace in his eyes.
That cheap wallet carried more than a photo and a medal.
It carried two lives—and finally led us both home.
