Pastor Sam found him at 5:40 in the morning, asleep in the third pew with his boots still laced.
Sam stopped with one hand on the light switch and left it off. Gray light came through the tall windows. The young man had folded his jacket into a square under his head, collar tucked in, the way a drill instructor would want it.
A canvas seabag sat on the floor beside him. One boot rested on the strap.
Sam knew that habit. You kept a foot on your gear so it couldn't walk off while you slept.
He went to the fellowship hall kitchen and started the big coffee urn. The furnace kicked on below the floor, ran for half a minute, and quit with a sigh.
It had been doing that for a week. The VFW's Veterans Day breakfast was in that hall on Wednesday, and the repairman from Marietta couldn't come until the following Monday.
When Sam came back with two cups, the young man was sitting up. His eyes went to the side door, the front doors, and then to Sam's hands.
"Morning," Sam said. He set one cup on the pew in front of the man and stepped back. "It's black. I don't keep anything fancier."
"Black's fine." The man didn't touch it. "I'm sorry. The door was open."
"It usually is. That's sort of the point of it."
The man looked about thirty. Short hair grown out a little, a three-day beard, a gray sweatshirt with a faded eagle, globe, and anchor on the chest.
He wasn't wearing the emblem like a costume. He was wearing it like the last clean shirt in the bag.
"You the pastor?"
"Sam Greer."
"I need to talk to a Marine," the young man said. "Somebody told me there's a VFW here."
"There is. It opens at four on Fridays for fish." Sam sat down two pews away, on the aisle, so the way out stayed clear. "In the meantime, you're talking to one. Lance corporal, then sergeant. Eight years. It was a long time ago, but they don't take it back."
The young man studied him for a while. Then he picked up the coffee.
"Nate Ruiz," he said. "Corporal. Motor transport. Got out in '22."
"Where'd you serve?"
"Pendleton mostly. Okinawa for a while."
"I was at Lejeune," Sam said. "We can still be friends."
That got the smallest smile. It didn't last.
Sam didn't ask why a Texas boy was asleep in a Methodist church in Calder County, Ohio. Thirty years of pastoring had taught him that the first question a hurting man answers is rarely the real one. The Marine Corps had taught him something older.
Marines don't take handouts. They take assignments.
The furnace kicked on again, rattled, and quit.
Nate's head turned toward the sound like a dog hearing its name.
"How long's it been doing that?" he asked.
"About a week. Runs a little bit, then shuts off."
"Starts, lights, then quits after a few seconds?"
"That's about it."
Nate set the coffee down. "Probably your flame sensor. Gets dirty, can't tell the burner's lit, so it shuts the gas off to be safe."
He stopped himself. "Or it could be something else. I'm not a furnace guy."
"What kind of guy are you?"
"The kind that fixed seven-tons in the rain."
Sam stood up. "Well, Corporal, I've got sixty veterans coming for eggs on Wednesday and a furnace that won't stay lit. I can't pay you much. I can pay you breakfast."
Nate looked at him for a long moment, the way a man looks at a deal he's been burned on before.
"I'm not looking for charity, sir."
"Good. I'm not offering any. I'm offering a job with a bad furnace."
Sam pointed at the basement door. "Tools are on the pegboard. Light switch is on the left. Don't call me sir. I work for a living."
That was the oldest joke in the Corps, and Nate knew it. He laughed once, mostly through his nose, and went downstairs.
By seven, the furnace had run for twenty minutes without quitting.
Nate came up the basement stairs with a thin metal rod pinched in a rag. "Flame sensor," he said. "Covered in gunk. Cleaned it with that fine sandpaper you had in the drawer. You'll want a technician to look it over, but it'll hold for your breakfast."
"Dot's going to want to meet you," Sam said.
"Who's Dot?"
Before Sam could answer, the side door opened and Dot Kessler came in with two paper sacks and her coat buttoned wrong. She'd heard from Lloyd Hersh, who'd heard from Sam's car being parked at the church before six, that something was up.
She took one look at Nate and set a sack in front of him. "Sausage biscuit. Two of them. You're too thin, hon."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me. It makes me feel old, and I'm already old."
Lloyd came in behind her, seventy-nine and leaning on his cane, a stack of printed programs for the Veterans Day breakfast under one arm. He shook Nate's hand like a man checking the grip.
"Marine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Army," Lloyd said. "Don't hold it against me."
Nate ate the first biscuit in four bites. Sam watched him slow down on the second one, the way a hungry man does when he realizes the plate isn't going anywhere.
Lloyd set the programs on the table. "Sam, I need you to look at the order. We've got the flag, the prayer, the names, then Danny says a few words."
"Danny?" Nate said.
"Danny Ortiz," Lloyd said. "Local boy. Marine sergeant. He was out in California for a while. He's speaking for the young fellas this year."
Nate's hand stopped halfway to his coffee.
Sam saw it. He saw the color go out of the young man's face, and he saw Nate's eyes go to the folded program, where Danny's name sat in black letters under the words Guest Speaker.
"You know him," Sam said quietly.
Nate didn't answer. He folded his napkin into a square and set it beside the cup.
Outside, a truck door slammed. Boots came up the side steps, quick and heavy, and a voice called through the door.
"Pastor Sam? Lloyd said you had a Marine in here."
Nate was already on his feet. He grabbed the seabag, pushed through the kitchen, and hit the back door with his shoulder.
It banged open, and cold rain blew across the fellowship hall floor.