“Let me see,” says the Admiral. The man holds out his hand. The Admiral looks it over until he finds a scar between the thumb and forefinger. “I took Harlan fishing when he was nine. He got that scar trying to gut a trout.” And then there’s a voice from behind him—another man, a little bit older than the first. “I remember!” he says. The Admiral smiles. Perhaps the memories are spread out, but they’re here—every one of them.
