“Private Cory, reporting for duty, sir,” Cory said Tuesday afternoon, coming over to Mason who was behind the bar.
Mason chuckled. “Have a seat, private. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He was impressed that Cory had obviously chosen the best of what clothes he owned—a pair of jeans that were only slightly worn at the hems and a gray sweatshirt that looked almost new although it hung loosely on his slender form—as well as combing his hair into some semblance of order despite the fact it was below his ears. He filled a glass with soda, setting it in front of the young man, and then went to take orders from two of the bar’s regulars.
As he started back to where Cory was sitting, Mason saw he was talking to John Ford, another of the regulars. As he got closer, he heard John say, “You’re new
