John nods with a small smile, never looking up from his work.
“Yeah, plenty. United States Army, Special Forces.” He replies while working the screws loose. “I keep a stocked survival knife, but had it made here. Been hoping for a while something of mine might turn up at that dude’s shop, like the real knife or my tags…”
He trails off, thinking about Sam—the person he would have wanted to give them to, like Sam gave him the dreamcatcher.
Shaking it off, he refocuses on the task at hand—and is distracted enough by his pain that, for once, it isn’t all that troubling to admit—
“I, uh—I served in Vietnam. Busted out of a POW camp by giving myself dysentery, so…I’m good at improvising.”
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“Yeah, plenty. United States Army, Special Forces.” He replies while working the screws loose. “I keep a stocked survival knife, but had it made here. Been hoping for a while something of mine might turn up at that dude’s shop, like the real knife or my tags…”
He trails off, thinking about Sam—the person he would have wanted to give them to, like Sam gave him the dreamcatcher.
Shaking it off, he refocuses on the task at hand—and is distracted enough by his pain that, for once, it isn’t all that troubling to admit—
“I, uh—I served in Vietnam. Busted out of a POW camp by giving myself dysentery, so…I’m good at improvising.”