The semester rolled along. Each day followed a similar pattern. Joe would attend morning classes if he had any, then go to the student’s dining hall, grab something and eat alone before hiding out in the library until his next class began.
However, while still hovering on the periphery of college social life, Joe now had a spring in his step, a reason to get out of bed in the mornings and haul his ass to class. That reason, of course, was Ron Driscoll.
Almost unintentionally Joe began to wear the same kind of clothes his idol wore: fatigue pants, olive drab T-shirts, and combat boots. Joe didn’t own a camouflage jacket, and was reluctant to buy one, although he would often look longingly at them in store windows. He even went online to look at dog tags, but again chickened out from maki
