BenRR

        A flame licked at the end of a cigarette. The silver lighter clicked shut, and Old Man Morrison sat back in his chair. His hair was grey, his face lined with years and miles, his eyes wrinkled and keen. He took a drag from his cigarette, pulled it from his mouth with a deft motion of his fingers, blew the smoke out in a cloud before his face.         "So you're the deserter, then," he prompted. "How'd you get that name, huh? Run out on some of your friends in the war?"         The man across the table from him was