"What is this, kid?" Dorien asked, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling like distant thunder. "What are you doing running in here?"
The boy held up the denim vest with both hands, thrusting it forward as if offering a priceless treasure. "It's real! My daddy wore it! Please buy it from me!"
Dorien stepped closer, casting a long, dark shadow over the trembling child. He looked at the boy’s tear-stained face, then down at the heavy cut being held out before him.
"Why are you selling it?" Dorien demanded, his tone stern, yet stripped of any cruelty.
The boy’s lower lip quivered violently, and fresh tears spilled down his dusty cheeks. He buried his chin into the denim, his small frame trembling from head to toe.
"My daddy... he won't wake up," the boy choked out, his voice shattering under the weight of sheer terror. "He was so hot, and then he fell on the floor, and he won't open his eyes... He hasn't moved since yesterday morning."
A cold, heavy knot tightened in the pit of Dorien's stomach. He reached out with gloved hands and gently took the vest from the child. The material was thick, weathered, and smelled faintly of desert sage, stale engine fuel, and old sweat.
Dorien’s eyes drifted to the front left breast of the cut. Stitched above the pocket was an old, faded military nameplate and a distinct set of rocker patches from an overseas convoy unit that had ceased to exist twenty years ago.