Shannon found a bench to sit on. A few bicyclists passed him and some stray pedestrians were strolling around, but since it was Tuesday and only a quarter past nine in the morning, the street was mostly empty. By noon it would be crowded, and by Friday the street would be jumping. As Shannon relaxed on the bench, he spotted a young man in military fatigues and shoulder-length hair walking toward him. The man’s gait seemed off, and it wasn’t until he got closer that Shannon realized he had a prosthetic leg. He joined Shannon on the bench, nodded toward Shannon’s damaged hand and tapped his own prosthetic leg.

“Tikrit,” he said. “How about you?”

Shannon shook his head. “I wasn’t over there.”

“Hey, man, sorry.” He frowned and scratched his head. “I thought you lost your fingers by mortar or something like that.”

“No, not that way. It happened when I was a police officer.” Shannon didn’t bother elaborating. He held out his hand and introduced himself. The other man shook hands, gave his own name as Kyle Jones and told Shannon he used to be a member of the First Marine Division.

“Hey, man, however it happened, we’re all brothers, you know?” Jones’ eyes grew distant as he stared past Shannon in the general direction of the Flatirons. “We all gotta keep moving forward, know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.” Shannon saw a glint of confusion in Jones’ eyes as the ex-marine’s gaze shifted from the mountains back to him. “Kyle, what do you say I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Kyle considered it, shook his head.