Three: tours of duty before finally making it home for good. One: remaining leg. Two: little girls who call him “Daddy.” Five: photos on the TV, so they wouldn’t forget what he looked like. Four: friends who died in the blast that took his leg. Seven: guns at their funerals, fired three times each. Eight: hours laying awake his first night home, staring at the ceiling. Zero: parts of him that are the same.
