Found and Lost

           He was tall, skinny, with a foul greasy odor like he hadn’t had a bath in a while. His eyes were narrow slits. He finger-combed his oily hair and then pointed a finger at me. Now would have been the time to turn tail and run, but I held my ground. I didn’t travel from Danvers, Massachusetts to sunny Sarasota, Florida, to work on my tan. I had a mission, and I was so close.
            “What you want?” the bleary-eyed man asked. His finger was still pointing at me like he had a dagger in his hand.
            “I’m here to find Sergeant Petersson.”
            He dropped his hand to his side, stared at the ground and didn’t say anything.
            “Was he here? Is he here?”
            The flap to the tent the tall skinny man lived in moved, and a short blond-haired girl crawled out. And stood up. She was wearing a pair of tattered jeans, a torn tee-shirt and an army fatigue jacket that looked like a tent on the small woman’s body.
            “Petersson was here. He gave me this jacket. He was sick. Real sick. Was he kin to you?”
            I didn’t like that she talked in the past tense. “He’s actually my half-brother. My mother’s first husband was his father.”
            She shuffled toward me. Her pupils were dilated, and didn’t focus. She touched my face and gently traced my features.
            “You have his nose.”
            “When did you lose your sight?”
            “Fallujah. Suicide bomber. Killed four men in my regiment.”
            “Karl, Sergeant Petersson was in Fallujah.”
            “Yeah,” she said and pulled a pack of Pall Mall Golds from my half-brother’s jacket. She pulled out a Zippo, lit her cigarette, took a deep drag, and handed the lighter to me. “This was your brother’s. He gave it to me. You should have it.”
            I looked at the lighter. Semper Fi was written on the front. His name was engraved on the back.
            “Name’s Emily,” the blond girl said. 
            “Jon,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Karl?”
            She turned around and started shuffling toward a log. The tall skinny guy took her hand and led the way. 
            “Thanks, Jayson,” she said and sat.
            I sat next to her. She took my hand and said, “About a week ago. He started coughing so bad, I was worried. The Salvation Army lady came by on her regular visit. When she saw how bad Karl was, she said he needed to be in a hospital.”
            “Where’s the Salvation Army.”
            “17th Street,” Jayson said. 
            Emily started crying. Jayson hugged her, and I put my arm on her shoulder. 
            A few minutes later, I reached in my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and handed Jayson a hundred dollar bill and told him to spend it on food. I gave him one of my cards and told me to call me if he needed anything.
            “Right, like we got a phone in our tent.”
            “I’ll buy you one after I get back from the Salvation Army.”
            He pocketed the money and my business card and thanked me.
            My next trip after visiting the Salvation Army was the morgue. I showed them my ID and claimed Karl’s body. He was cremated.
            Three days later, Jayson, Emily, and I were at City Island Park at Sunset. Jayson brought a beat-up guitar. Emily sang Amazing Grace as we scattered Karl’s ashes.